ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 


TO  THE 


BATTLEFIELDS 


\  ilAUl'h/hS     AM)     miUTHKUS      1'lULISll! 


\ 


SMTOfCGO 


15596 


Books  by  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 

UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

CATHEDRAL  DAYS 

THE  REPUBLIC  OF  THE  FUTURE 

THREE  NORMANDY  INNS 

GLORINDA 

ON  THE  BROADS 

FALAISE:  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  CONQUEROR 

THE  AMERICAN  HUSBAND  IN  PARIS 

IN  AND  OUT  OF  A  FRENCH  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

HEROIC  FRANCE 


UP  THE  SEINE 
TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

By 
ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 

Author  of 

"THREE  NORMANDY  INNS"  "FALAISE" 
"HKBOIC  FRANCE"  "ON  THE  ENEES  OF  TUB  OODS"  arc. 

Illustrated 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 


UP  THE  SBIHB  TO  THE  BATTLE-FIELDS 

Copyright  1920.  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  April.  1920 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

INTRODUCTION — THE  SEINE 1 

I.            HAVRE 8 

EL          Two  PLEASURE  TOWNS — TROUVILLE  AND  DEAU- 

VILLE 29 

HI.         THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 38 

IV.  TO   HONFLEUR THE   ANCESTOR 68 

V.  THE  F£TE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 77 

VI.  THE  STORY  OF  HONFLEUR 98 

VII.  A  GRANDSON  OF  Louis  PHILIPPE 110 

VIII.  THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN  .    .    .  115 

IX.  UP  THE  SEINE 150 

X.  A  CROSSING  AT  QUILLEBEUF 169 

XI.  LlLLEBONNE 175 

XII.  THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC — AN  ADVENTURE    .    .  186 
XHL      CAUDEBEC 206 

XIV.  A  GREAT  ABBAYE — ST.-WANDRILLE 218 

XV.  An  OPEN-AIR  LUNCHEON 233 

XVI.  LE  TRAIT — A  GREAT  ENTERPRISE 239 

XVII.  JUMIEGES * 247 

XVHI.  DUCLAIR 267 

XIX.  THE  LAST  VOYAGE .%    ...  276 

XX.  NAPOLEON'S    REMAINS    CONVEYED    FROM    ST. 

HELENA  UP  THE  SEINE 284 

XXI.  To  THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN       318 

XXII.  ROUEN — SEEN  IN  A  DAY 328 

XXIII.  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR'S  LAST  JOURNEY  .    .  346 

XXIV.  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 361 

XXV.  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS    ....  378 

XXVI.  THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 385 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  HARBOR  OF  HAVRE  IN  WAR-TIME      ....  Frontispiece 

KING  FRANQOIS  THE  FIRST Facing  p.    18 

ANNE  OF  BOURBON,  DUCHESS  OF  LONGUEVILLE  "  26 

EMPRESS  EuariiriE "  48 

LA   LlEUTENANCE  AT  HoNFLEUR *'  72 

KING  Louis  PHILIPPE '*  116 

QUEEN  MARIE- AMELIE "  140 

THE  BELL  TOWER  OF  HARFLEUR  IN  NORMANDY  .  '*  154 

CHARACTERISTIC  VIEW  OF  NORMAN  SCENERY     .     .  "  186 

CHURCH  OF  NOTRE  DAME  AT  CAUDEBEC      ...  "  212 
CLOISTER  OF  THE  ABBAYE  OF  ST.-WANDRILLE,  NEAR 

CAUDEBEC     (NOW    THE    HOME   OF   MAURICE 

'  MAETERLINCK) "  222 

JUMIEGES "  248 

VIEW  OF  DUCLAIR "  274 

CHURCH   OF   THE   ABBAYE   OF   ST.  -  GEORGE   OF 

BOCHERVILLE "  280 

NAPOLEON'S  ADIEU  TO  FRANCE '*  812 

VlEW  OF  THE  QUAY  AT  RoUEN "  328 


UP  THE  SEINE 
TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 


UP   THE   SEINE 
TO   THE   BATTLEFIELDS 


INTRODUCTION 


THE   SEINE 


OP  this  river — the  river  that  crosses  all  France — 
whose  shores  are  starred  with  great  cities,  whose 
waters  have  mirrored  Gallic  boats,  Roman  galleys, 
Norman  fleets,  English  galleons,  and,  in  our  day, 
have  harbored  the  world's  ships  that  have  saved  the 
world — of  this  river  of  France,  famed  since  before 
Caesar  looked  out  upon  it  through  the  silken  cur- 
tains of  his  litter — how  many  soldiers,  how  many 
travelers  know  its  true  beauties? 

The  Seine  is  really  the  unknown  river. 

It  is  the  Rhine  rather  than  the  Seine  that  tourists, 
hitherto,  have  felt  impelled  to  traverse.  We  have 
all  been  brought  up,  indeed,  to  believe  the  Rhine 
was  the  true  river  of  romance.  Each  castle  we  passed 
on  this  river  the  Germans  call  "Father  Rhine"  was 

the  Lorelei  that  sang  seductively  of  elves  and  fairies. 

1 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Weird  tales  and  legends  haunted  every  rock  and 
forest.  In  our  later,  more  enlightened,  day,  the 
Rhine  is  now  chiefly  important  as  being  no  longer 
"Germany's  river,"  but  her  enforced  frontier. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  its  history,  it  has  been 
said  that  "France  is  a  person,"  and  that  in  her 
geography  she  presents  herself  as  a  "Being."  No- 
where will  this  sentient  quality  be  as  persistently 
felt  as  at  this  watery  gateway  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Beauty  we  know  as  France. 

Between  the  headlands  of  Cap  de  la  Heve  and 
of  Sainte  -  Adresse  that  seem  to  protect  the  great 
northern  port  of  France — Havre — and  the  opposite 
coast  of  lower  Normandy — Calvados — there  pours 
into  the  ever  -  changing  waters  of  the  capricious 
Channel  the  mouth  of  the  Seine. 

As  though  to  present,  at  her  very  entrance  gates, 
those  striking  contrasts  which  make  France,  geo- 
graphically, a  "being" — a  being  endowed  with  the 
complexity  of  genius — we  find  on  the  coast  of  Cal- 
vados, opposite  modernized,  commercialized  Havre, 
the  two  pleasure  towns  of  Trouville  and  Deauville; 
and  not  eight  miles  away,  farther  up  along  the  river- 
mouth,  the  ancient  town  of  Honfleur  rises  up  amid 
her  green  hills  as  though  to  symbolize  the  hoary 
antiquity  of  France  itself. 

The  immense  arch  of  sky  that  spans  these  towns 
and  the  changeful  mass  of  the  commingling  waters 
of  sea  and  river  give  a  grandeur  to  this  gateway  of 
France  few  countries  present.  And  as  there  is  a 
peculiar  splendor  in  the  breadth  of  tin's  great  ex- 


INTRODUCTION 

panse  of  waters,  beneath  the  inverted  cup  of  sky, 
it  seems  as  though  the  mercurial  qualities  we  discern 
in  French  character  find  their  counterpart  in  this 
ever-changing,  ever-alluring  spectacle.  As  there  is 
magnificence  in  the  great  outlook,  so  there  is  also 
gaiety,  as  infinite  delicacy,  and  a  suave  charm  in 
the  tones  and  colors  that  light  up  the  scene. 


Why  is  it  that  not  one  traveler  in  a  thousand,  no, 
nor  in  tens  of  thousands  has  known  the  Seine  shores 
as  the  shores  of  the  Hudson  are  known — as  the 
Rhine,  for  so  many  years,  has  been  known  and  sung? 
Few  Frenchmen  even  are  fully  aware  of  the  wonders 
and  beauties  which  a  trip  up  the  Seine  will  yield. 

The  reasons,  it  appears  to  me,  are  obvious. 

At  Havre,  if  you  chance  to  land  at  that  port,  you 
are  in  haste  to  reach  Paris.  If  you  look  out  on  the 
glittering  waterway,  you  think  of  it  chiefly  as  the 
Channel.  It  has,  doubtless,  never  occurred  to  you 
to  consider  the  great  stretch  of  waters  between 
Havre  and  the  opposite  Normandy  coast  as  the  gap- 
ing mouth  of  the  Seine. 

At  Rouen,  should  you  linger  to  see  the  architect- 
ural wonders  of  the  famous  city,  the  river,  down 
along  the  docks,  you  find,  looks  commonplace,  with 
its  factory  chimneys  dimming  the  horizon.  The 
quays  are,  indeed,  full  of  interest,  since  the  shipping 
lining  the  docks  is  proof  of  Rouen's  being  the  second 
great  port  of  northern  France.  But  there  is  no  talis- 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

man  to  point  the  way  to  the  wide-open  river-spaces, 
to  the  towering  cliffs,  and  to  the  chateaux-perched 
splendors  that  adorn  the  Seine  shores. 

If,  in  Paris,  the  Seine  seems  chiefly  ornamental 
in  that  it  runs  under  beautiful  bridges,  and  useful 
since  it  takes  one  from  Notre-Dame  to  Suresnes 
for  a  song,  yet  how  can  one  have  one's  interest 
excited  by  a  river,  when  a  city  as  splendid  as  is  Paris 
unrolls  its  glories,  one  by  one?  When  Notre-Dame 
blocks  one  end  of  the  horizon,  and  the  semi-Moorish 
towers  of  the  Trocadero  the  other?  When  along 
the  sky-line  one  sees  outlined  the  Conciergerie,  the 
stately  Institut  de  France,  the  noble  lines  of  the 
Louvre,  and  Le  Grand  and  Le  Petit  Palais?  And 
when  all  the  old  houses  between  are  telling  you  of 
the  horrors  and  the  gaieties,  the  fetes,  and  the  revo- 
lutions they  have  survived? 

Yet  what  a  romance  indeed  of  daring  adventure, 
of  sieges,  of  the  pomp  and  pathos  of  dead  kings 
floating  down  its  waters  to  their  last  resting-place, 
of  the  safety  sought  by  monarchs  in  flight,  to  gain 
its  open  port  and  harbors — what  a  long  scroll  of 
historic  interest  would  you  have  found  in  this  story 
of  the  Seine! 

In  the  very  birth  of  the  river  there  are  the  ele- 
ments of  romance. 

It  is  proof  of  that  instinct  for  allying  art  to  nature, 
of  that  pagan  survival  handed  on  through  Roman 
occupation  to  Latinized  France,  that  the  river  at 
its  very  source — in  the  remote  hills  the  French 
poetically  call  La  Cote-d'Or— the  Golden  Hillside — 


INTRODUCTION 

we  should  find  the  Seine  emerging  from  the  womb  of 
Mother  Earth,  in  that  province  Shakespeare  called 
"waterish  Burgundy,"  and  emerging  with  a  certain 
spectacular  pomp.  The  Romans  had  found  the 
source  of  the  Seine,  and  had  worshiped  there  their 
river  nymph  in  a  temple  erected  to  their  deity. 
Long  ago  temple  and  goddess  were  a  part  of  the  ruins 
of  the  ages. 

In  that  remote  corner  of  the  Cote-d'Or,  in  a  dense 
grove,  however,  there  still  trickles  the  slender 
stream.  It  formerly  lost  itself  in  a  lap  of  verdure. 

Napoleon  III  found  this  birth  of  the  great  river 
of  too  plebeian  an  aspect.  During  his  reign  a  some- 
what theatrical  grotto  was  built.  On  the  rock  at 
the  right  there  was  placed  a  charming  figure — a 
water-nymph.  This  modern  figure,  by  Jouffroy, 
would  be  no  water-sprite  were  she  voluminously 
clothed.  Gracefully  reclining  on  her  hard,  rocky 
bed,  in  one  hand  this  guardian  of  rivers  holds  an 
urn,  from  which  trickles  the  rivulet.  This  slender 
streamlet  is  the  Seine  at  its  source.  In  her  right 
hand  the  nymph  uplifts  a  garland  of  fruits  and 
flowers,  as  though  to  symbolize  the  abundant  pros- 
perity her  waters  are  to  lave. 

Close  to  the  statue  are  the  ruins  of  the  antique 
temple.  The  columns  and  statues  lying  about  were 
formerly  the  decorative  adjuncts  of  a  shrine  dedi- 
cated to  the  goddess  Sequana,  the  Romans  having 
carried  to  this  remote  corner  of  Gaul  their  tradi- 
tions of  identifying  the  forces  of  nature  with  their 
gods  and  goddesses. 

o  5 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  centuries  that  have  rolled  on  beneath  the 
arches  of  time,  between  the  erection  of  that  pagan 
temple  and  the  bustling,  crowded,  super-modern 
cities  that  line  the  Seine's  shores  have  seen  France 
itself  develop  from  a  Latinized  Gaul  to  be  the  great 
citadel  of  civilization. 

Great  historic  changes  bring  into  the  limelight  of 
the  world  centers  of  interest  hitherto  neglected. 
Cities  and  countries  deemed  unimportant  suddenly 
loom  large. 

During  the  war,  discoveries  were  made  of  certain 
natural  resources  hitherto  known,  perhaps,  but  not 
utilized,  in  France,  as  in  other  countries. 

Not  only  was  the  Seine  found  to  be  navigable  for 
very  large  ships,  as  far  as  Rouen,  thus  making  of 
that  city  a  second  great  port  of  northern  France, 
but  the  Seine  shores  suddenly  revealed  themselves 
as  mines  of  wealth  for  industrial  and  commercial 
purposes.  Its  forests  could  furnish  valuable  timber 
for  constructive  purposes,  as  its  quarries  would  yield 
inexhaustible  material  for  factory  usages.  Deep 
river  soundings  proved  the  possibility  of  ship-build- 
ing yards  on  a  large  scale.  And  thus,  in  four  short 
years,  behold  the  Seine  emerging  into  the  intensive 
modern  commercial  life  of  the  nations  as  a  battle- 
ground for  competitive  acquisition  of  its  wealth- 
yielding  sites  and  docks. 

In  a  few  short  years,  therefore,  the  Seine  will 
no  longer  be  the  lovely  river  of  beauty,  with  sur- 
prises at  every  turn  for  the  exacting  traveler.  Tow- 
ering hill  slopes,  historic  chateaux,  antique-faced 


INTRODUCTION 

towns  and  villages,  set  in  a  frame  surprisingly  wild, 
and  forests  of  an  almost  primeval  aspect — such  are 
the  unsuspected  features  this  unknown  inland  river 
still  can  yield. 

As  the  scbne-de-decors  of  certain  dramatic  scenes 
in  French  history,  the  Seine  has  furnished  the  setting 
for  some  of  the  more  tragic,  as  well  as  for  certain 
pathetic  episodes  in  France's  checkered  career. 

In  our  day,  when  monarchs  have  had  to  seek 
safety  in  flight;  when  kingdoms  and  empires  have 
crumbled  as  though  at  the  touch  of  a  magic-endowed, 
destructive  hand;  when  revolution  in  as  murderous 
and  barbarous  a  form  as  the  war  waged  by  the 
Bolsheviki  seems  about  to  strangle  in  Russia  the 
very  liberties  and  freedom  for  which  the  Allies  have 
fought — in  our  tragic  day  of  stress  and  strain,  it  is 
well  to  recount  again  the  stories  of  those  kings  and 
monarchs  whose  fortunes  and  fates  have  helped  to 
mold  France  and  also  to  precipitate  the  mighty 
drama  of  which  we  are  a  part. 

Above  all  else,  a  voyage  up  the  Seine  yields  to 
the  most  traveled  tourist  a  new  route,  fresh  sensa- 
tions, novelties  in  scenic  and  in  architectural  splen- 
dors, as  it  also  presents  the  delectable  contrast  of  a 
prosperous  France  to  her  devastated  regions. 


CHAPTER  I 


HAVRE 


AN  immense  arch  of  sky,  the  moving,  illumined 
•**•  face  of  the  waters,  ships  and  fishing-boats 
gliding  out  of  Havre's  inner  basin  to  the  open  sea, 
and  transports  alined  like  spectral  sentinels  in  the 
roads  were  seen  through  the  morning's  haze. 

The  very  air  was  still.  The  morning's  quiet  was 
broken  only  by  the  tooting  of  shrill  whistles,  by  a 
fisherman's  rauque  cry,  and  by  the  squealing  of  sea- 
gulls, mounting,  soaring,  beating  the  air,  others 
dipping  straight  down. 

The  morning  sun  was  now  gradually  opening  its 
mist-clouded  eyes.  Shrouded  in  those  tinted  veils, 
the  morning  had  the  white  pallor  of  a  timid  bride. 
The  risen  sun  might  have  been  her  torch-bearer. 
As  the  torch  burned  brighter  the  mist's  trans- 
parencies were  pierced 

Havre's  long  lines  of  docks,  quays,  factories,  and 
shipping  were  transfigured  by  the  glow.  The  city 
wore  iridescent  tints 

The  great  headland  of  Sainte-Adresse  towered 
above  seas  and  city.  The  sun-rays  smote  her  breast, 


HAVRE 

glorifying  houses,  villas,  and  her  gay  gardens.  As 
Athenian  lovers  of  the  great  Greek  age  hung  gar- 
lands on  the  doors  of  those  whose  favors  they 
craved,  France,  in  this,  her  flower-decked  headland, 
seems  ever  luring  the  sea  with  her  Sainte-Adresse 
walls  and  terraces  flinging  their  rose-petals  out  to 
the  blue  waters. 

From  the  heights  one  looks  down  upon  the  glitter-^ 
ing  water-spaces  of  the  Seine's  wide  channel  that 
loses  itself  in  English  mists.  The  city  at  one's  feet 
stretches  on  and  on,  its  port,  docks,  quays,  suburbs, 
its  basins  and  ship-building  yards  carrying  the  eye 
on  to  its  neighbor  Harfleur,  six  kilometers  away. 
Across  the  moving  face  of  the  waters,  the  undulating 
coast-line  of  the  green  Normandy  hills  dips  and  rises — 
a  prospect  such  as  only  one  other  city  in  the  world 
can  rival,  since  we  have  Casimir  Delavigne's  out- 
burst to  emphasize  the  statement: 

"Apres  Constantinople — il  n'est  rien  d'aussi  beau!" 
The  city  of  Havre,  seen  from  the  opposite  Nor- 
mandy coast,  becomes  a  city  of  enchantment.  It  is 
as  decorative  in  its  contrasting  and  varying  effects 
of  color  and  tone  as  is  Venice.  It  rises  from  the 
arms  of  its  sea  lover  with  the  same  effortless  charm 
of  a  water-born  city.  It  is  luminous,  iridescent;  it 
disappears  behind  its  mists  as  an  Oriental  woman 
masks  herself  in  her  veil;  its  long  lines  of  light  at 
night,  stretching  from  her  port  entrance  to  Har- 
fleur, are  now  like  a  necklace  of  star-gems  worn  by 
a  water-queen,  now  delicate  points  of  light  piercing 
cloudy  vestments  of  fog. 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  two  great  harbor  lights  stab  the  night,  the 
one  with  its  flashing  crystal  brilliance,  the  other 
with  its  upspringing  crimson  dart,  as  though  each 
were  in  rivalry  to  outdo  the  other  in  some  murderous 
attempt  to  conquer  the  darkness.  And  that  un- 
changing, rhythmic  beat,  that  mechanical  pulse  upon 
the  night  silence,  is  the  sailor's  silent  guide  to  the 
haven  below  the  hills. 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  American  and  Eng- 
lish soldiers,  on  landing  at  Havre,  saw  the  city  as 
we  are  now  looking  out  upon  it  from  the  sea.  They 
have  caught  their  first  glimpse  of  the  land  they  had 
come  to  defend,  as  their  ships  came  to  anchor  in 
these  Havre  roads.  From  across  the  ships'  sides, 
how  eagerly  the  quick-glancing  soldiers'  eyes  have 
taken  in  that  magnificent  outlook! 

The  eyes  of  the  men  from  New  England,  from 
Arkansas,  from  Nebraska,  from  adventurous  Cali- 
fornia, as  from  England,  Scotland,  Australia,  Canada, 
New  Zealand,  India,  and  Algiers,  have  stretched 
beyond  that  green  hill  of  Sainte-Adresse  to  fasten 
on  the  massed  gray  roofs,  on  the  strange-faced 
French  houses,  and  on  the  forest  of  ships'  masts 
crowding  Havre's  inner  docks  as  though  this,  their 
first  French  town,  were  to  reveal  to  them  the  secret 
of  the  charm  that  had  the  magic  to  draw  them  to 
help  defend  her  land  and  their  own.  How  eager 
were  the  wide  young  eyes!  What  shouts  and  cries 
responded  to  the  rapturous  French  greetings  on 
shore!  What  quick,  elastic  pliability  to  new  ways 

and  to  new  methods  of  life  and  living  were  quickly 

10 


HAVRE 

proved  by  the  heroes  who  were  to  help  defeat  the 
greatest  military  power  ever  known! 

Those  gray -faced  houses  leaning  over  Havre's 
quays  became  as  familiar  as  those  of  their  own  homes. 
All  the  world,  literally  all  the  world,  now  knows  those 
ancient,  tatterdemalion  houses  as  few  others  in 
France  are  known.  Nearly  every  race  of  men  peo- 
pling the  earth  has  been  staring  at  them,  laughing 
at  them,  shouting  as  they  first  approached  them, 
cheering  as  they  saw  them  vanish  into  the  dim  dis- 
tance. For  as  those  gray  faces  retreated,  visions  of 
English  homes,  of  American  hearthstones,  of  India's 
brilliant-hued  temples,  and  of  Senegalese  huts  drew 
nearer. 

II 

Enter  the  city,  and,  like  many  another  beauty  seen 
at  close  quarters,  Havre  spells  a  certain  disenchant- 
ment. 

As  one  passes  through  the  too  narrow  harbor 
entrance  the  first  impression  is,  however,  at  once 
satisfying  and  exhilarating.  This  first  French  city 
bears  the  distinctive  national,  racial  stamp.  Its 
features  are  characteristically  French. 

The  very  colors  of  the  fishing-smacks  bobbing 
about  on  the  undulating  waters,  the  ocher-tinted 
or  deep-crimson  sails,  the  painted  boats,  the  sailors' 
and  fishermen's  berets  and  jerseys,  the  sunken  wrecks 
(still  weirdly  striped  with  their  camouflage  bands  of 
greens  and  blues)  and  the  sea-going  ships  moored  to 

the  docks — make  brilliant  notes  of  contrasting  effect. 

11 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Above  the  quays,  to  the  left,  there  is  the  pebbly, 
stony  beach  below  the  familiar  white  facade  of 
Frascati's.  Then  comes  the  long  line  of  Havre's 
most  distinctive  feature — that  slanting,  irregular  line 
of  its  sagging,  leaden-faced  or  painted  houses.  There 
are  houses  with  blue  blinds,  houses  with  signs  hang- 
ing crooked  or  with  a  string  of  frowzy  heads 
craning  down  from  a  seventh-  or  eighth-story 
window. 

It  is  on  entering  the  city  one  experiences  one's 
first  disillusion. 

The  luminous  effects  seen  from  the  water  or  from 
the  Normandy  coast  are  gone.  Havre's  narrow 
streets,  her  ill-kept  pavements,  her  few  imposing 
public  buildings,  her  restricted  residential  quarter, 
and  the  squalor  of  her  dark,  reeking  alleys  are  hardly 
relieved  by  the  brilliant  parterres  of  superb  flowers 
in  her  public  gardens,  and  by  the  brightness  of  her 
gaily  decorated  shops  in  her  two  fine  boulevards. 

It  was  to  such  a  congested  little  city,  its  harbors 
already  avowedly  inadequate  for  pre-war  shipping 
accommodations,  that  Havre  awoke,  in  early  August, 
to  the  startling  surprise  she  was  to  be  the  chosen 
port  for  many  of  England's  "first  hundred  thousand  " 
— and  for  five  long  years  thereafter  for  how  many 
more  millions  of  men,  from  all  over  the  world,  and 
for  how  many  millions  of  tons  of  supplies  and 
stores! 

This  is  to  be  no  war  book — nor  is  it  to  be  a  war 
record.  But  no  story  of  Havre,  the  Seine's  great 
sea  sentinel,  would  be  complete  without  at  least  a 


HAVRE 

cursory  review  of  the  prodigious  effort  made  to 
meet  the  tremendous  task  her  position  as  the  first 
great  port  of  northern  France  imposed  upon  her. 

After  the  first  stupor  into  which  Havre  was 
plunged  by  the  gradually  dawning  knowledge  she 
was  to  be  the  first  great  receiving  center  of  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  overseas  troops;  that  there 
were  to  be  poured  upon  her  docks  tons  and  tons  of 
stores  of  all  sorts  and  kinds;  that  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  transports  must  be  met  in  the  roads; 
that  camps  must  be  built  for  soldiers  of  every  race 
— and  almost  of  every  color,  Havre  awoke  from 
her  dazed  state  and  proceeded  to  meet  every 
demand  upon  her  with  a  courage,  an  initiative, 
and  a  daring  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  American 
traits. 

The  story  of  Havre  during  the  great  war  has  been 
told  again  and  again.  Few  of  her  historians,  however, 
have  done  full  justice  to  the  surprises  she  gave 
France,  and  the  world  in  general,  by  her  suddenly 
developed  territorial  expansion. 

Cities  began  to  grow  about  Havre  with  a  rapidity 
as  startling  as  was  the  diversity  of  their  character. 

One  of  these  cities  was  the  huge  English  camp  at 
Harfleur,  where  soldiers,  on  landing  at  Havre,  were 
immediately  marched  to  their  quarters,  to  the  tents 
and  barracks  set  in  their  frames  of  green.  Recruits 
were  trained  on  these  Harfleur  heights,  and  any  day 
you  could  believe  it  was  ancient  Greece  and  not 
France  in  which  you  were  living,  as  you  looked  on 

the  graceful  poses  of  men  hurling  hand-grenades 

13 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

with  the  same  pose  and  gesture  you  may  find 
sculptured  in  antique  marble. 

There  was  the  more  scattered  city  of  the  hospitals. 

Casinos  and  hotels  at  Sainte-Adresse  were  requisi- 
tioned; and  during  all  the  long  months  of  the  great 
war  men  of  every  race  and  color  were  to  be  seen 
hanging  across  the  wide  balustrades  of  balconies, 
in  their  convalescent  state.  Under  the  stimulating 
sea  air,  under  the  quickening  of  the  sun-rays,  wounds 
quickly  healed,  and  health  became  as  contagious 
as  disease. 

There  was  also  the  Belgian  city  on  these  heights. 
Those  charming  little  villas,  built  by  Dufayel,  the 
originator  of  this  hillside  as  a  residential  quarter — 
contiguous  to  Havre — these  villas  that  were  nested 
in  gardens,  that  terraced  the  hill  slope — villas  that 
seemed  built  solely  to  house  love  and  lovers — were 
the  homes  of  saddened  Belgian  statesmen.  Here  were 
housed  all  the  diplomatic  and  official  world  from 
Brussels.  Here  on  this  Sainte-Adresse  headland  was 
the  Belgian  governing  power,  the  arsenal  of  the  heroic 
civic  and  diplomatic  Belgian  forces — with  two  great 
figures  lacking — the  king  and  Cardinal  Mercier. 

Still  another  war  city,  in  Havre,  was  her  city  of 
wharves  and  docks.  Day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  camouflaged  ships,  transports  and  torpedo- 
boats  packed  every  inch  of  Havre's  all  too  scant 
harbor  space.  Soldiers  crowded  the  ships  from  our 
own  country,  as  from  every  one  of  England's  patri- 
otic colonies  and  from  every  corner  of  the  British 
Isles,  save  rebellious  Ireland. 

14 


HAVRE 

There  was  also  the  city  of  the  skies. 

For  four  long  years,  up  in  the  regions  of  the 
vasty  blue  deeps,  dirigibles,  the  eyes  of  the  aviation 
fleet,  would  sail  forth,  peer  down  into  the  ocean 
depths,  and  once  an  enemy  submarine  was  descried, 
presto!  the  telephonic  message  gave  the  exciting 
signal. 

Out  from  their  sheds  along  the  shores  the  winged 
fleet  soared  aloft.  All  the  skies  were  then  pulsating 
with  the  vibration  of  throbbing  motors.  A  swoop 
downward,  a  pique,  and  out  through  the  azure  a 
bomb  would  turn  the  seas  to  a  splashing  fountain. 
An  oily,  besmirched  sea  surface  would  prove,  pres- 
ently, that  a  certain  number  of  Germans  had  been 
sent  to  the  only  world  where  they  could  do  no  harm. 

Below  the  skies,  there  was  the  incredibly  mixed 
world  of  all  those  nations  that  meet,  but  do  not 
melt. 

Abroad  upon  the  Havre  streets  you  would  face 
Senegalese,  Annamites,  and  Algerians;  you  would 
see  negroes  oozing  from  the  bowels  of  deep  ships, 
or  coiled,  in  sensuous  sleep,  along  the  docks.  Ind- 
ians wearing  their  khaki  with  the  dignity  of  an- 
other race,  their  turbans  seeming  to  crown  their 
shapely  heads,  would  pass,  but  would  not  elbow  the 
Chinese  coolie  or  the  Japanese  aide.  Sturdy  English 
Tommies,  on  leave  from  their  camp  at  Harfleur, 
would  crowd  every  available  caf6  table  for  the  sa- 
cred ceremony  of  afternoon  tea;  and  our  own  athletic 
American  soldiers  would  climb  the  hill  above  Havre 
to  gain  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  huts — that  city  also  on  the 

15 


UP  THfc  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

heights — the  city  of  the  cinema,  the  gramophone, 
the  lecture-platform — and  the  profitable  shop. 

Threading  his  way  through  all  this  new  world  of 
men,  marching  or  strolling  with  the  nonchalant  step 
of  the  man  who  treads  his  own  home  soil,  you  would 
have  met  the  poilu,  in  his  horizon  blues,  little 
dreaming,  so  long  as  the  war  was  on,  of  the  hero 
buttoned  up  within  his  ill-fitting  uniform.  His  dis- 
covery of  his  value  has  come  later — as  the  discon- 
certing protest  of  repeated  strikes  has  proved  to  an 
amazed  world. 

m 

Havre,  now  peace  has  come,  has  recaptured  her 
semi-provincial  calm.  Walk  through  her  boulevards 
and  you  will  find  a  kind  of  dulled  Parisian  movement. 
Her  great  days  are  now  a  part  of  history. 

Havre,  however,  has  the  responsive  vibration  of 
her  nationality  to  great  movements.  Let  the  city 
be  touched  by  the  magic  wand  of  a  world  crisis 
and  she  will  be  again  alive  to  her  finger-tips.  She 
is  already  sentient  with  the  nervous,  elastic  power 
of  new  and  latent  forces. 

Havre  is  planning  great  enterprises;  new  activities 
in  her  commercial,  industrial,  and  maritime  life  are 
being  developed.  The  after-war  momentum  will 
carry  her  ambitious  efforts  to  the  attainment  of 
fresh  conquests. 

Those  of  you  who  cross  her  streets  and  squares, 
and  find  Havre  chiefly  interesting  because  she  is 
French,  and  not  because  she  is  beautiful,  could  never 

16 


HAVRE 

invest  her  modern  thoroughfare,  her  bright  shops, 
and  her  squalid  alleys  with  any  sentiment  bequeathed 
from  a  past  rich  in  romance. 

Yet  has  Havre  a  story  to  tell  that  many  a  more 
famous  city  of  great  adventures  may  envy. 

She  had  the  best  of  beginnings  for  the  recital  of 
a  fairy  tale.  She  began  her  existence  as  the  hum- 
blest of  the  humble.  She  started  in  life  with  a  small 
group  of  fishermen's  huts,  buried  in  sand-dunes. 
Above  this  squalid  village,  on  the  hill  slope  above, 
stood  a  tiny  chapel,  known  as  La  Chapelle  of  Le 
Havre  de  Grace.  Hence  her  earlier  name  of  Havre 
de  Grace. 

Two  kings  may  be  said  to  have  held  her  over  the 
baptismal  font  of  her  seas.  One  king,  Louis  XII, 
discovered  in  this  unknown  fishing  village  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  great  port.  The  second  king,  Francis 
I,  Louis  XII's  successor,  adopted  the  outcast.  Hav- 
ing paid  sixty  ducats  for  his  right  to  own  a  large 
part  of  Havre,  Francis  I  made  the  best  bargain 
any  French  king  ever  transacted. 

Francis  I,  who  did  nothing  by  halves,  immediately 
proceeded  to  rear  the  infant  port,  to  dot  it,  and  to 
enrich  it. 

In  those  days  when  Europe  was  emerging  from 
the  more  or  less  anarchic  conditions  of  the  so-called 
Middle  Ages,  the  best  of  the  kings  who  ruled,  who 
were  endowed  with  the  talents  of  true  leaders,  what, 
in  point  of  fact  were  they,  if  not  the  greater  advent- 
urers? They  took  the  road  that  led  to  change,  to 

improvement;  they  started  forth  to  paint  the  world 

17 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in  new  colors.  Such  kings  had  the  prophetic 
vision. 

The  king  who  came  after  this  Louis — the  true 
discoverer  of  Havre — was  the  very  prince  of  royal 
adventurers.  In  love,  in  war,  in  captivity,  in  mag- 
nificence, and  in  the  art  of  leading  his  people  out 
from  the  lingering  bondage  of  medieval  darkness  to 
riot  in  the  full  sun  of  Renaissance  splendor,  who 
can  rival  Francis  I? 

In  the  Louvre,  in  Paris,  you  may  look  upon  the 
face  of  this  great  king,  one  that  Havre  grew  to  know 
as  well  as  the  faces  of  her  own  fisherfolk.  That 
long  oval,  that  fine  Gallic  brow,  the  prodigiously 
elongated  straight  nose — the  nose  even  Titian  must 
render  distinctive  rather  than  distinguished — the 
bearded  cheeks  and  chin,  the  full  Roman  lips,  and 
above  all,  the  eye — dark,  protruding,  voluptuously 
lidded — the  seeing  eye  of  the  lover  of  art  and  of  a 
beautiful  woman — here  before  you  on  the  canvas 
you,  too,  grow  to  know,  with  an  intimate  sense  of 
satisfaction,  the  countenance  as  well  as  much  of 
the  nature  and  character  of  the  man  who  opened 
the  great  doors  on  France's  Vita  Nuova,  on  her  new, 
on  her  truly  modern  career. 

Francis  I  had  come  from  Italy,  flushed  with  his 
triumph.  He  was  fresh  from  his  victory — he  had 
won  Milan  from  the  Sforzas. 

His  mind  was  saturated  with  the  Renaissance 
spirit;  he  was  still  warmed  with  the  glow  of  her  intel- 
lectual activities,  with  the  power  and  splendor  of 

her  artistic  development. 

18 


KING   FRANCOIS   THE   FIRST 
From  a  painting  by  Titian 


HAVRE 

Francis  I  brought  to  France,  as  he  was  to  prove 
in  his  enterprises  at  Havre,  a  new  view  of  kingly 
conduct.  This  was  the  gift  he  brought  from  Italy 
with  which  to  enrich  his  own  kingdom — and  Havre. 
He  had  seen  the  great  Italian  and  Venetian  ports 
crowded  with  shipping.  What  had  France  to  show 
compared  to  these  great  world  centers  of  maritime 
power?  Two  ports  on  a  river — Honfleur  and  Har- 
fleur!  And  the  latter  was  being  rapidly  filled  up 
with  the  mud  of  the  Seine  and  with  sand.  Who 
could  compare  such  ports  with  Genoa  or  with  Venice? 

Francis  I  did  nothing  indeed  by  halves.  What- 
soever he  planned  had  to  be  executed  in  a  royal 
way.  Whether  it  was  decking  France  with  magnifi- 
cent palaces,  or  pitting  himself  against  the  greatest 
master-mind,  as  emperor  and  general,  in  Europe; 
or  in  the  matter  of  love-making;  or  luring  to  France 
such  artists  as  Cellini,  as  Primaticio,  above  all 
others,  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci;  whatever  Francis  I 
conceived,  created,  desired,  or  attracted  by  reason 
of  his  imaginative  grasp  and  his  magnetic  charm, 
must  be  of  a  splendor  commensurate  with  the  large- 
ness of  a  mind  to  whom  small  ways  and  petty  am- 
bitions were  deemed  unworthy  of  a  French  king. 

Orders  were  given  to  the  commandant  of  Hon- 
fleur to  construct  a  "great  port"  at  Havre,  one  to 
harbor  "the  great  ships  of  our  kingdom  and  those 
of  our  allies."  Privileges  were  lavishly  granted. 
The  town  must  be  peopled  and  finely  built.  Havre 
de  Grace  promptly  took  the  king  at  his  word,  and 
proceeded  to  grow  and  grow. 

19 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Havre  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  have  forestalled 
certain  modern  methods  in  business — if  indeed  the 
robbing  of  one's  brother  be  not  as  old  a  crime  as 
the  first  man  who  had  one. 

Havre's  prosperity  was  built  on  Honfleur's  ruin. 
As  though  it  were  not  enough  of  bitterness  for  Hon- 
fleur  to  see  her  own  docks  deserted,  her  cargoes 
shipped  at  nouveau  riche,  plebeian  Havre,  it  was  part 
of  her  punishment  for  being  on  a  river  rather  than  on 
the  sea  to  find  her  executioner  in  her  own  governor. 

The  commandant  of  Honfleur  was  ordered  to  go 
at  once  to  Havre  de  Grace  afin  d'y  percer  et  con- 
struire  a  great  port.  And  the  great  port  was  promptly 
brought  to  completion. 

It  has  not  only  been  the  truism  of  our  own  world 
that  great  fleets,  fine  ports,  and  large  armies  are 
as  so  many  fingers  pointing  the  way  to  easy  con- 
quest; Francis  no  sooner  had  his  port  and  harbors 
than  he  proceeded  to  utilize  them. 

Havre's  harbors  seemed  to  promise  extraordinary 
facilities  for  approaching  England's  white  cliffs.  The 
king  saw  the  possibility  of  his  itch  for  the  conquest 
of  English  territory  being  realized  through  his  great 
harbors.  William  the  Conqueror,  and  later  Napo- 
leon, were  not  the  only  French  monarchs  whose 
nights  were  troubled  with  that  vision. 


Francis  came  down  from  Paris  to  lead  in  person 
the  great  expedition  he  had  planned  to  capture  the 

20 


English  fleet  off  the  Isle  of  Wight.  There  were  one 
hundred  and  seventy-six  vessels  in  his  fleet,  one  in 
those  days  deemed  invincible. 

He  gave  a  great  feast  before  the  departure  of  the 
fleet  to  the  governor  of  Havre,  to  the  admirals 
and  generals  of  the  army  and  navy  about  to  start 
forth. 

Francis,  fresh  from  the  splendor  of  his  own  great 
court,  with  his  luxurious  tastes,  his  suite,  with  their 
customary  costumes  of  satins  and  plumes  and 
slashed  doublets — where  was  such  a  company  to 
find  resting-place  in  so  rude  a  little  town?  Let  us 
try  to  picture  that  scene  when  Francis  came  down 
to  inspect  wharves  and  quays  and  basins — works 
he  found  already  "well  under  way."  He  would 
have  found  the  embryonic  city  just  emerging  from 
its  chrysalis  state  of  fishermen's  huts  and  rude  cot- 
tages. Timbered  houses  newly  thatched,  with 
coarse  carvings  on  door-jambs  and  lintels;  streets 
newly  laid  out — the  accepted  sixteenth-century 
street,  without  gutter  or  sidewalk,  inches,  if  not 
feet,  deep  in  mud  and  filth;  and  dormer-windows 
so  neighborly  Havre  gossips  could  air  all  the  scandals 
of  the  growing  port  without  the  trouble  of  peopling 
their  doorways. 

Courts,  as  late  as  the  Napoleonic  days,  traveled 
with  all  the  paraphernalia,  the  adornments  of  fur- 
niture and  tapestries,  the  linen,  silver,  and  glass, 
as  well  as  with  all  the  essentials  for  elaborate  culi- 
nary arrangements.  For  Havre  such  precautionary 

measures  were  more  than  ever  imperative. 
3  21 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Francis,  even  when  he  hunted,  Brantonie  tells  us, 
carried  along  chariots  filled  with  the  ladies  of  his 
court,  with  "fifty  chariots  filled  with  tents  and  tent- 
poles,"  six  horses  to  each  chariot. 

To  commemorate  fitly  so  great  an  event  as  a 
speedy  conquest  of  England,  a  magnificent  arbor 
was  erected  on  the  docks  of  Havre.  Covered  with 
feuillage — with  roses  and  tree-branches — great  tables 
were  laid. 

What  a  scene  the  Normandy  sun  lit  up! 

Here  was  a  bit  of  Italy  on  the  bleak  Havre  coast. 
There  were  the  costly  lace  covers,  the  finely 
wrought  gold  and  silver  flagons,  and  the  rare  wines 
sparkling,  as  the  sun-rays  touched  their  topaz  and 
rubies  to  deeper  tones. 

Above  the  board,  the  lovely  faces  of  women,  their 
shoulders  gleaming  like  new-dropped  snow,  framed 
in  their  wide  Venetian-point  collars,  the  gold  and 
silver  of  their  brocaded  gowns  matching  the  cour- 
tiers' gay  silks  and  satins.  Behind  the  guests  the 
green  walls  of  the  arbor  were  lined  with  lackeys. 

How  Havre  must  have  stared  and  marveled!  To 
behold  such  splendor  drew  all  the  countryfolk  from 
miles  about. 

What  would  not  one  give  to  have  had  that  strange 
commingling  of  grandeur  and  squalor,  of  courtly 
magnificence  and  rugged  homely  folk  reproduced 
for  us!  What  a  contrast  to  our  dismally  uniform, 
monotonous,  colorless  crowds!  One  tries  to  picture 
the  gaily  costumed  courtiers,  with  their  slashed 
satin  doublets,  their  plumed  hats,  their  laces,  and 

22 


HAVRE 

gold- worked  swords;  the  dazzle  of  the  gold-embroid- 
ered uniforms  of  admirals  and  generals;  the  scent 
of  perfume  outrivaling  the  roses;  and,  as  the  focal 
point  of  all  this  splendor,  "the  Superb" — the  king! 
— then,  in  those  earlier  years  of  his  reign,  in  all  the 
vigor  and  majestic  grace  of  "one  who  outshone 
them  all." 

In  the  crowd  assembled  there  were  those  more 
rugged  faces,  those  more  salient,  expressive  features 
of  Havre's  men  and  women,  in  the  fishermen  bronzed 
to  deep  tan,  and  in  the  peasants  as  ruddy  as  their 
wines,  which  we  may  see  woven  into  the  tapestries 
of  the  period. 

As  though  laughing  in  her  silent  depths,  there 
was  the  sea.  Such  sport  as  she  would  have  with 
these  plumed  admirals!  Such  curses  and  groans 
as  would  be  flung  at  her  across  the  shining,  high- 
hung  decks! 

The  elements  had  determined  indeed  to  make  an 
end  of  the  great  enterprise  before  it  was  begun. 
The  admiral's  iron  ship,  the  Philippe,  took  fire  and 
burned  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  king.  But  as 
tidal  waves  could  not  alter  as  determined  a  mind 
as  was  that  of  Francis  I  (for  the  first  Havre  he  had 
endowed  with  extraordinary  privileges  was  almost 
entirely  swept  away  by  the  "male  tide"  Le  Mas- 
caret,  only  to  have  a  second  town  grow,  as  by  magic, 
out  of  the  ruins) — as  giant  waves  could  not  thwart 
the  king's  purpose,  neither  could  fire. 

The  fleet  went  out  to  sea,  however,  only  to  en- 
counter disaster  after  disaster.  Forced  to  return  to 

H 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Havre,  the  ships  were  speedily  and  mournfully  dis- 
mantled. 

Francis,  however,  had  not  done  with  his  naval 
follies. 


Who  can  affirm  the  nineteenth  and  the  twentieth 
centuries  are  the  greatest  among  all  other  inventive 
ages?  Behold  Francis  I  anticipating,  in  minor  de- 
gree, the  size  and  many  of  the  marvelous  combina- 
tions of  the  floating  palaces  of  our  own  day! 

La  Grande  Frangoise,  a  monster  sea-going  craft  for 
those  days,  her  carrying  capacity  being  two  thousand 
tons,  was  to  astonish  other  kingdoms  than  France. 
The  marvel  of  all  maritime  wonders  was  that  which 
the  interior  of  the  vessel  contained.  There  was  a 
forge,  a  windmill,  a  jeu  de  paume,  and  a  wooden 
house  on  her  tillac.  La  Grande  Frangoise  also  con- 
tained a  chapel  capable  of  seating  three  hundred 
people. 

The  sea  seemed  to  delight  to  sport,  cruelly,  with  the 
king's  maritime  fancies.  The  monster  was  forced  to 
await  certain  tides  to  launch  it  on  its  first  voyage. 

The  malicious  sea  saw  in  its  own  tidal  wave — Le 
Mascaret — its  chance  to  teach  monarchs  the  limits  of 
their  power.  The  great  fury  of  the  mounting  waters 
so  successfully  pounded,  kicked,  and  tossed  this  early 
leviathan  about  that  La  Grande  Frangoise  was  soon  a 
mere  wreck.  Out  of  its  timber  certain  of  the  very 
houses  you  may  see,  fronting  the  Quai  de  la  Barre, 
were  built. 

24 


VI 

Other  kings  and  other  faces  of  the  rulers  of  France 
who  came  to  the  great  port  loom  out  of  the  historic 
mists. 

There  came  Henri  II,  that  lover  to  whom  the  age 
in  his  divinity  seemed  rather  an  attraction  than  the 
usual  most  cruel  of  disenchantments.  When  Henri 
came  to  Havre  he  brought,  this  time,  his  wife, 
Catherine  de  Medici,  of  evil  memory,  with  him; 
but  as  he  was  also  careful  to  bring  along  his  court, 
what  court  could  exclude,  in  its  longest  journeys, 
or  in  its  shortest — Diane,  huntress,  mistress,  diplo- 
matist, statesman,  lover  of  books — lover  also  of  the 
English  tub? 

There  was  Henri  III,  that  prince  a  mignons,  who 
brought  his  dogs  over  from  Caen,  in  a  basket  tied 
about  his  neck;  who  added  to  his  other  crimes  of 
omission  and  commission  that  of  allowing  his 
treacherous  governor,  the  Due  de  Villars,  to  sell 
Havre  to  the  English. 

Henri  IV  appeared  in  his  turn,  in  his  genial  and 
heroic  character  of  savior  of  cities  and  of  French  sous. 
He  added  a  fresh  feather  to  his  white  panache  by  refus- 
ing the  fete  Havre  proffered  him,  in  his  customary 
homely,  vigorous  way:  "  Give  the  money  to  the  poor. 
In  that  way  they  will  make  by  it  and  so  shall  I." 

Lovely  women's  faces  light  up  the  duller  pages 
of  Havre's  history. 

The  beautiful  Duchesse  de  Longueville  knew  the 
prison  of  Havre  of  her  day  better  than  she  did  its 

25 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

sea  beauties.  Mazarin  had  more  confidence  in  this 
remote  fortress  than  in  the  too  easily  approached 
Bastille;  he  had  the  Duchesse's  beloved  brothers,  the 
Princes  de  Conde  and  de  Conti,  as  well  as  her  hus- 
band, the  Due  de  Longueville,  behind  the  strong 
bolts  of  the  Normandy  prison. 

After  the  bolts  were  drawn,  and  princes  and  the 
Due  had  made  peace  with  the  court,  it  was  the  turn 
of  the  Duchesse  to  know  how  dull  prison  life  could 
be.  Forced  to  live  for  some  years  on  her  husband's 
estate  in  Normandy,  Norman  fields  and  lanes,  even 
gardens  and  courts,  were  found  as  repulsive  as  were 
Havre's  gray  fortress  walls.  Her  ladies,  seeking  to 
divert  her  Grace,  suggested  riding,  or  walking,  or 
tennis,  or  tapestry-work,  as  diversions. 

"I  do  not  care  for  innocent  pleasures,"  was  the 
revealing,  contemptuous  reply.  Dull  indeed  must 
have  seemed  the  provincial  calm  of  Norman  fields 
and  forests  to  one  who  had  played  for  the  greatest 
prizes  the  kingdom  had  to  offer,  for  one  who  had 
intrigued  against  Mazarin,  and  who  had  treated 
with  Spain  on  equal  terms;  for  her  whose  wit  and 
beauty  had  held  La  Rochefoucauld  captive  for  years, 
and  whose  caprices  had  given  him  "copy"  for  some 
of  his  bitterest  epigrams  on  love  and  constancy; 
for  the  proudest  of  the  Fronde's  beauties,  whose 
wondrous  eyes  had  "troubled"  Turenne,  for  the 
clever  diplomatist  who  had  maneuvered  to  put  her 
own  brother  on  the  French  throne. 

Could  such  a  woman  find  distraction  in  pushing 
a  needle  into  canvas? 

26 


ANNE   OF   BOURBON,    DUCHESS   OF   LONGUEVILLE 
From  a  painting  by  Decreuze 


HAVRE 

The  Pompadour,  when  she  came  to  Havre  with 
her  "unamusable"  Louis  XV,  had  a  harder  task. 
Although  this  later  seductress  was  in  the  full  flower 
of  her  youth  and  beauty,  even  her  liveliest  stories — 
and  the  Pompadour  could  tell  a  story  as  few  women 
tell  stories — neither  her  songs  nor  could  her  harpsi- 
chord enliven  days  which  her  royal  lover  felt  to  be 
among  the  deadliest  for  dullness  he  had  ever  spent. 

Havre  must  wait  for  genius  to  find  in  her  quiet 
streets,  and  now  crowded  docks,  the  possibilities  of 
greater  activities. 

After  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  Napoleon  came  to 
Havre  with  the  woman  who  dimmed  his  star.  Em- 
bellished and  beautified  as  was  Havre  in  this  year 
1810,  yet  Marie  Louise  must  have  found  the  city 
as  dull  as  did  the  Pompadour. 

This  visit  was  shadowed  by  worse  than  dullness. 
"After  six  long  years  of  patience,  Havre  still  re- 
mained inactive;  the  English  fleet  still  held  the  seas." 
The  Emperor  was  no  longer  the  same  man  as,  when 
coming  to  Havre  as  Consul,  he  had  captured  the  city 
by  the  all-discerning  glance  of  his  wonderful  blue 
eyes;  when  docks  and  wharves  were  trodden  with 
that  firm,  yet  rapid  step  that  carried  him  to  the  con- 
quest of  the  world.  During  this  first  short  visit  there 
had  been  time  for  a  full,  investigating  survey;  every 
quay  must  be  visited,  every  ship's  deck  inspected. 
Modern  Havre  may  be  said  to  date  from  the  dreams 
formed  by  the  Napoleon  of  these  consulate  days, 
when  he  aspired  to  the  conquest  of  a  world-empire. 

The  true  conquest  of  England  came  just  a  century 

27 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

later.     In  1814  Napoleon's  star  sank  never  to  rise 
again,  below  the  mists  of  the  horizon. 

Out  of  the  mists  of  a  glorious  Normandy  dawn, 
August  6,  1914,  England  came  to  clasp  hands  with 
France  for  the  noble  conquest  of  a  world's  liberation 
from  militarism. 


CHAPTER  II 


TWO  PLEASURE  TOWNS — TROUVILLE  AND   DEAUVILLE 


AT  this  entrance  to  France,  at  her  very  gates,  she 
•**•  presents  those  contrasts,  that  amazing  variety 
in  life  and  movement  which  are  found  to  be  among 
her  most  persistent,  perdurable  attractions. 

Less  than  an  hour's  trip  across  the  broad  Seine's 
mouth  and  you  land  at  the  Trouville  pier.  In  a 
little  over  a  half-hour  you  are  ferried  over  to  Hon- 
fleur — two  towns  as  far  apart,  in  point  of  attraction 
and  from  the  picturesque  point  of  view,  as  are  a 
summer  city  of  villas  and  tents  and  an  ancient  town 
still  holding  fast  to  its  antique  charm. 

Should  you  be  happily  inspired  to  take  one  of  the 
tidal  boats  that  ply  daily  between  Havre  and 
Trouville  you  would  find  the  long  ridge  of  hills 
barring  the  horizon  becoming  more  and  more  definite, 
distinct. 

Suddenly,  as  you  neared  the  coast,  the  uprising 
greens  would  tumble  to  be  lost  in  an  indistinct  blur 
of  houses,  of  villas,  and  of  a  monster  casino.  An 
elongated  pier,  stretching  out  into  the  sea  like  an. 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

extended  platform,  would  be,  were  it  low  tide,  your 
landing-place. 

The  whites,  browns,  yellows,  and  pinks  of  the 
variously  painted  villas,  framed  in  their  decorative 
greens  of  foliaged  backgrounds,  and  to  the  right, 
the  long  lines,  stretching  along  the  amber  beaches, 
of  the  little  city  of  the  tents,  would  leave  no  doubt 
in  any  one's  mind  that  Trouville  had  set  a  certain 
fashion  to  all  other  towns  and  beaches  born  to 
bloom  only  under  summer  suns.  From  1846  up  to 
1912  Trouville  was  undisputed  queen  of  French 
summer  pleasure  towns. 

Those  marvelous  white  sands  that  make  of  her 
beaches  a  footing  as  firm  as  asphalt,  and  whose 
breadth  and  length  are  even  more  generous  in  size 
than  a  Parisian  boulevard,  drew  all  the  court  of 
the  Third  Empire,  as  they  have  the  even  more  mixed 
worlds  of  the  Republic,  to  bring  vexed  spirits, 
strained  nerves,  and  weakened  bodies  to  the  healing 
of  nature's  tonic  forces. 

For  all  these  worlds,  what  a  prodigiously  great 
stage  was  set  here  on  the  sands  for  the  gaieties,  vani- 
ties, tragedies,  and  splendors  in  which  to  play  out 
their  brief  roles!  For  effective  backgrounds  there 
are  none  to  compare  with  the  delicate  blues  of  a 
French  sky  and  the  deeper  sapphires  of  these  north- 
ern seas.  Trouville  sat  upon  her  topaz  sands  like 
a  queen  awaiting  homage,  assured  of  her  all  but  un- 
paralleled place  among  beaches. 

The  blue  seas  rolled  to  her  amber  feet;  for  her 

canopy  there  was  the  arching  skies;  and  for  her 

so 


TWO  PLEASURE  TOWNS 

earthly  kingdom  there  lay  behind  this  her  gleaming 
realm — Normandy  lanes,  Normandy  thatched  farm- 
houses, Normandy  orchards,  and  Napoleon's  in- 
comparable roads. 

Thus  endowed,  Trouville  was  indeed  a  king's 
morsel.  Yet  it  was  an  artist  and  no  king  who, 
chancing  on  her  loveliness,  made  her  a  world-famous 
beauty. 

Boudin,  one  of  the  well-known  artists  of  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  having  wandered 
down  along  this  lower  Normandy  coast  of  Calvados, 
struck  by  the  grandeur  of  Trouville's  attractions, 
painted  a  picture  of  her  beaches. 

Trouville's  fortune  was  made. 

Boudin's  picture,  exposed  in  the  Salon  of  1846, 
turned  Parisian  criticism  to  frantic  acclamations  of 
delighted  surprise. 

A  beach  as  vast,  as  beautiful  as  this — at  Trou- 
ville— so  near  Paris — and  unknown!  It  seemed  in- 
credible ! 

The  discovery  of  anything  new  or  unknown  in 
France,  that  is  French,  at  any  time  is  enough  to 
turn  all  Parisian  heads.  To  possess  a  part  at  least 
of  this  treasure-trove,  therefore,  became  as  con- 
tagious a  mania  as  for  courtiers  to  pay  court  to 
the  latest  beauty. 

Such  leaders  as  the  famous  Princesse  de  Sagan,  the 
Marquise  de  Barbentane,  the  Princesse  de  Metter- 
nich,  followed  by  all  the  horde  of  foreigners  who 
made  the  social  laws  of  Eugenie's  mixed  court, 

bought  lots,  built  villas,  and  made  of  the  Trouville 

si 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

beaches  an  extension  of  the  Tuileries  gaieties.  The 
mad,  reckless  course  of  pleasure  set  by  the  leaders 
of  that  mad  and  reckless  world  could  continue  their 
wrecking  process  of  the  last  Napoleonic  era  without 
a  break  in  the  continuous  performance. 


II 

With  the  advent  of  the  Republic  of  France  and 
the  country's  gradual  recovery  from  the  disaster 
of  Sedan,  Trouville  followed  the  upward  rise  of 
France's  prosperity.  Her  pre  -  eminence  among 
French  watering  resorts  remained  undisputed  up  to 
the  fatal  moment  of  her  tilting  for  first  place  with 
her  quieter,  more  strictly  exclusive  neighbor,  Deau- 
ville. 

Human  passions  can  play  as  great  havoc  with  a 
town  or  city  as  they  do  when  kings  play  for  empire. 

The  two  provincial  municipalities  of  Trouville 
and  Deauville  were  each  in  turn  devoured  by  a  com- 
mon, and  not  uncommon  rage,  to  outdo  the  other  in 
presenting  to  France  and  to  the  world  the  bribe 
of  possessing  the  finest  casino.  Each  little  city 
began  to  build  on  a  scale  of  princely  magnificence. 

Trouville  cast  the  dice  of  her  future  stake  for  pre- 
eminence on  the  objective  attraction  of  size;  her 
casino  was  to  be  the  largest  in  the  world,  the  most 
elaborate,  and  the  most  comprehensive  in  furnishing 
unheard-of  varieties  of  comfort  and  pleasure 
novelties.  The  easy  road  to  ruin,  from  following 
the  supposed-to-be-erratic  curves  of  the  "little 

82 


TWO  PLEASURE  TOWNS 

horses"  to  the  more  tragic  uncertainties  of  bac- 
carat, was  to  be  made  fatally  seductive  by  every 
witchery  of  artistic  device.  The  best  artists  from 
the  Paris  orchestras,  great  actors  from  La  Comedie 
Frangaise,  from  L'Odeon,  and  singers  whose  voices 
were  still  unworn  from  the  harshness  of  Russian 
and  American  winter  climates  were  to  turn  Trou- 
ville  into  a  Parisian  musical  and  dramatic  center. 

The  casino  at  Deauville  confessed  as  elaborate 
a  program  and  also  as  a  building  a  purer,  less 
sensational  taste.  The  architectural  lines  of  the 
long,  low,  creamy-white  building,  as  it  rose  up  above 
its  beautifully  laid  out  gardens — across  the  road — 
running  out  to  the  dunes — recalled  Trianon  models. 
The  decorative  Cupids  adorning  the  casino  cornice 
looking  down  on  the  scene  of  battle  had  an  innocent 
air  of  playing  a  winning  game. 

It  was  the  Cupids,  in  the  end,  who  won  out. 

When  the  touchstone  of  the  season  opened  for  the 
final  success  or  failure  of  the  two  great  casinos,  the 
two  worlds  of  the  habitues  of  the  two  beaches  were 
as  conjectural  as  to  the  ultimate  decision  in  favor 
of  one  or  the  other — for  one  or  the  other  must  in- 
evitably take  second  place — as  were  the  trembling 
capitalists  whose  money  was  on  the  venture. 

"Our  husbands  will  go  over  to  Trouville  to  follow 
the  little  ladies  and  gamble  at  their  will,  and  we 
shall  be  left  to  empty  rooms  at  our  Deauville  casino," 
a  Parisian  beauty  ruefully  sighed. 

Marital  Deauville  decided  differently.  And  Deau- 
ville's  pre-eminence  was  assured. 

33 


UP  THE   SEINE  TO  THE   BATTLEFIELDS 

Trouville  had  lost.  Her  great  gamble  had  resulted 
in  failure.  She  must  take  second  place.  Behold 
her  now,  still  crowded  in  the  gay  summer  months; 
her  little  city  of  tents  on  her  great  beaches  is  still 
set  daily  for  a  world  as  various,  as  mixed,  as  any, 
only  it  is  no  longer  the  world,  as  her  shops  also  pro- 
claim a  decline  in  values  and  her  lodgings  in  rentals. 

Trouville  had  sunk  to  the  level  of  the  semi-respect- 
able beaches  where  a  Parisian  may  take  his  wife 
and  family — and  even  leave  them — with  no  great 
fear  of  domestic  or  financial  bankruptcy. 

It  is  not,  however,  with  this  extension  of  Parisian 
boulevards  with  which  we  have  to  do.  For  the 
setting  of  a  certain  tragic  scene  we  must  make  our 
way  to  Deauville,  a  short  mile  away,  across  the 
river  Touques  and  its  bridge — to  the  west. 

Before  Deauville  was  the  Deauville  of  the  beau 
monde  it  was  a  fishing  village.  Thatched  houses, 
fishing-nets,  men  in  blue  jerseys  may  still  be  seen 
on  the  low  hill  beyond  the  weedy  race-course,  beyond 
the  sand-dunes,  the  scarce  pines,  and  the  sandy 
plains — plains  that  since  those  early  days  have  been 
made  literally  to  blossom  into  a  millionaire's  para- 
dise of  roses. 

The  little  watering-place  owed  its  existence  to  the 
speculative  talent  of  the  clever  Due  de  Morny, 
Napoleon  Ill's  counselor,  commonly  supposed  to 
be  his  natural  half-brother. 

The  Due  knew  his  world  well. 

The  Trouville  beaches,he  believed,  would  fail  to 
draw  the  truly  great,  the  securely  intrenched  aris- 

34 


TWO  PLEASURE  TOWNS 

tocratic  world  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  the 
world  Napoleon  III  had  never  succeeded  in  luring 
to  the  Tuileries.  Alluring,  compellingly  attractive 
as  were  these  new  Normandy  beaches,  these  social 
frondeurSy  who  had  never  forgotten  the  Terror 
nor  the  Revolution,  nor  their  own  exile  or  that  of 
their  parents,  nor  the  advent  of  the  two  "usurpers"- 
Napoleon  I  and  III —  felt  they  would  find  the  Trou- 
ville  air  vitiated  by  being  breathed  by  the  "foreign- 
ers," by  the  social  climbers,  and  by  the  adventurers 
who  were  crowding  Trouville. 

A  more  exclusive  center  must  be  found  for  this 
remnant  of  a  world  that  had  survived  the  Bourbon 
dynasties. 

The  Due  de  Morny  saw  his  chance,  and  took  it. 
He  would  have  been  in  his  element  in  the  later 
nineteenth-century  speculative,  trust-continuation 
era. 

Across  the  river  Touques  there  lay  the  sand- 
dunes  of  Deauville.  The  purifying  qualities  of  that 
innocent  river  would  be  found  as  protective  an  ele- 
ment against  the  contaminating  influences  of  this 
Napoleonic  world  as  the  Seine  had  proved  in  sepa- 
rating the  sacred  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  itself  from 
disintegrating  Tuileries  influences. 

The  Due  and  his  company  bought  up  Deauville 
sand-dunes,  and  the  rise  of  villa  plots  on  the  sand- 
dunes  soon  justified  de  Moray's  gambling,  literally, 
in  futures. 

The  exclusive  world  of  the  creme  de  la  creme  which, 
like  a  nest  of  Chinese  boxes,  becomes  smaller  and 

35 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

smaller  as  one  approaches  the  central  unit,  man- 
aged, for  several  decades,  to  restrict  Deauville  life 
to  one  fashioned  on  the  most  accepted  type  of  aris- 
tocratic traditions.  This  life  had  much  of  the 
charm,  of  that  delicate  and  exquisite  intimacy,  of 
the  distinction  that  even  masked  vice  with  a  veil 
of  decency  such  as  characterized  the  life  of  the  Lor- 
raine court  held  under  King  Stanislas  at  Luneville. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  gaiety  soon  recaptured  its 
lost  youth  of  enjoyment.  Under  Normandy  skies, 
before  the  blue  Normandy  seas,  love  and  pleasure 
took  up  the  lyre  and  played  their  music  of  enchant- 
ment. No  one  counted  the  vows  lisped  in  such  a 
scene  de  decors.  Even  scandals  were  breathed  low, 
since  it  had  all  happened  in  the  family. 

It  was  to  such  a  world  of  players  with  life  and 
destiny  that  the  appalling  echoes  came  of  the  tragedy 
of  Sedan  in  the  lovely  September  days  of  1870.  Down 
from  Paris  there  followed,  all  too  swift,  news  of  the 
terrifying  changes  taking  place  in  the  court  and 
government.  The  air  was  rife  with  revolution. 

The  cries  that  were  ringing  in  the  ears  of  the  Em- 
press Eugenie,  "Aux  Tuileries!"  "Aux  Tuileries!" 
and  "A  bas  V Empire!"  "Vive  la  Republique!"  were 
carried,  as  it  were,  on  the  wings  of  the  air  to  strike 
white  terror  into  the  heart,  and  to  test  the  soul  of 
the  aristocrats,  many  of  whose  fathers  and  mothers 
had  heard  the  last  of  just  such  seditious  cries  only 
when  they  had  laid  their  heads  beneath  the  knife 
of  the  guillotine. 

The  pretty,  striped  tents  could  now  be  folded  up; 

36 


TWO  PLEASURE  TOWNS 

the  musicians  could  wrap  violins  and  drums  and 
'cellos  in  their  casings;  the  steps  of  the  dancers  would 
glide  no  more,  for  many  a  day,  over  satiny  floors; 
and  for  many  a  long  day  France  would  no  longer 
beat  out  the  rhythmic  measure  of  pleasure  to  a 
startled  and  horrified  world. 

There  was  the  roll  of  ominous  thunder,  the  crackle 
of  lightning  strokes  in  the  light,  summer  air. 

"Vive  la  France!"  "Vive  la  Republique!"  "A  bas 
I' Empire!"  Such  were  the  cries  that  brought  con- 
sternation, anguish,  and  terror  to  every  light- 
hearted  pleasure-lover.  Well  they  might,  for  with 
the  defeat  of  the  French  army  at  Sedan,  with  the 
collapse  of  the  second  Napoleonic  reign,  a  new  world 
was  to  be  born.  Ermine  mantles,  royal  crowns,  and 
imperial  splendor  were  to  be  the  dust  and  debris  of 
an  inglorious  past.  The  people  and  their  leaders 
were  forging  new  governments,  and  with  a  rapidity 
that  seemed  to  be  of  magical  power. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  AN   EMPRESS 


scenes  within  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries  were 
rivaling,  in  tragic  intensity  and  fateful  issues, 
those  that  were  changing,  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
magic  baguette,  a  monarchial  form  of  government 
into  the  Republic. 

The  reception  of  Napoleon  Ill's  now  historic  tele- 
gram had  been  the  opening  scene  in  the  downfall  of 
the  Empress  Eugenie's  reign  as  Regent;  it  was  a 
scene  which  was  to  be  played  out  to  its  tragic  finish. 

The  army  is  beaten  and  captured;  not  having  succeeded  in 
being  killed,  in  the  midst  of  my  soldiers,  I  was  forced  to  give 
myself  up  as  a  prisoner,  in  order  to  save  the  army. 

NAPOLEON. 

The  'Empress,  as  Regent,  was  to  have  this  fatal 
news  conveyed  to  her  by  her  Minister  of  the  In- 
terior, Monsieur  Chevreau.  This  gentleman  was 
so  overwhelmed  by  the  awful  disaster  which  had 
overtaken  France,  the  army,  and  the  Empire  he 
found  himself  unable  to  utter  a  word,  either  of  com- 
ment or  of  consolation,  to  the  stricken  Empress. 

38 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

^Eugenie,  who  had  risen  to  receive  her  Minister, 
on  reading  the  despatch,  sank  into  a  chair,  giving 
way  to  her  despair;  soon,  however,  checking  her 
sobs,  she  rallied  her  courage  and,  fronting  the  more 
immediate  dangers  of  the  fateful  hour,  summoned 
a  meeting  of  her  Council. 

This  was  to  be  the  beginning  of  a  long  and  tumult- 
uous consultation,  of  hurried  and  agitated  meetings 
and  decisions  of  Ministers — of  all  that  feeble  rallying 
of  waning  forces  to  meet  irresistible  powers  that  were 
sweeping  all  things  before  it. 

The  one  hope  of  the  Empress  was  to  save  the  crown. 
She  made  a  last  impassioned  appeal  to  her  Council; 
she  pleaded  that  "to  save  France  from  the  clutches 
of  Bismarck"  the  country  must  rally  to  the  support 
of  the  Emperor — the  dynasty.  But  what  is  a  Re- 
gency to  effect  who  had  neither  generals  nor  bayo- 
nets nor  personal  popularity  to  uphold  its  power? 
The  tidal  wave  of  new  forces,  new  life,  and  new 
ideals  was  carrying  the  people  and  their  leaders  to 
those  insurrectional  intensities  that  sweep  away 
governments  as  easily  as  they  cry  new  cries  or  shout 
*  *  La  Marseillaise!" 

All  the  efforts  of  friends  and  Ministers  were  vain. 

There  was  the  famous  abortive  interview  of  Pros- 
per Merimee  with  Thiers.  The  latter,  having  sur- 
vived the  shipwreck  of  one  dynasty,  had  no  taste  for 
sinking  ships. 

There  was  the  comico-tragic  reply  of  General 
Trochu,  governor  of  Paris,  to  his  Empress's  impera- 
tive command  to  come  at  once  to  the  Tuileries. 

39 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"I  am  tired;  I  haven't  dined;  I  will  go  this  evening, 
after  dinner,  to  see  her  Majesty." 

This  was  the  man  who  had  sworn  that  very  morn- 
ing to  protect  his  sovereign;  who  had  vowed  that 
those  who  attacked  her  would  have  to  pass  over 
his  dead  body;  who,  a  few  hours  after  this  grandilo- 
quent gesture,  allowed  the  populace  to  enter  the 
Tuileries  and  the  Corps  Legislatif,  and  who  had  him- 
self proclaimed,  with  prudential  caution,  once  the 
Republic  was  announced  as  un  fait  accompli,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Government  of  National  Defense. 

Paris  itself  was  in  a  ferment  of  excitement  and  of 
tumult;  the  city  was  in  that  state  of  exalted  frenzy 
when  it  realizes  constraining  forces  are  removed 
and  brute  instincts  can  be  given  rein.  A  crowd, 
headed  by  a  buffoon,  had  forced  its  way  into  the 
Corps  Legislatif  and  had  settled  itself  comfortably 
in  the  seats  of  Deputies  and  Senators. 

Other  crowds  had  more  definite  ideas  of  material 
gain  to  be  won  out  of  this  revolutionary  movement. 
Pillage  and  plunder  sang  loud  in  the  ears  of  the 
swarms  that  were  hurrying  to  that  gilded  arsenal 
of  imperial  booty — the  Tuileries  Palace. 

Meanwhile,  the  graver  minds,  the  men  who  had 
been  planning,  working,  suffering  for  long  years, 
for  France's  liberation  from  despotism,  were,  for- 
tunately for  France,  not  only  dreamers,  thinkers, 
intellectuals,  but  men  of  action  and  resource. 

With  an  amazing  quickness  of  vision  these  revo- 
lutionary leaders  seized  what  we  now  term  the 
psychological  moment.  Jules  Ferry,  Jules  Fabre, 

40 


Gambetta,  Rochefort,  Keratry,  and  other  Deputies 
had  met  together  at  the  Palais  Bourbon  immedi- 
ately after  the  populace  had  invaded  the  Corps 
Legislatif.  They  felt  there  was  not  a  moment  to 
lose.  These  gentlemen  hastened  to  the  Hotel  de 
Ville — the  beautiful  civic  building  which  the  Com- 
mune was  to  burn  only  a  few  months  later.  From 
one  of  the  balconies  the  new  Republic  was  pro- 
claimed; every  tongue  in  Paris  shouted  the  birth 
of  France's  freedom  to  the  listening  world. 


II 

As  soon  as  the  political  adherents  of  the  Napo- 
leonic dynasty  learned  of  the  proclamation  of  the 
Republic,  a  committee  of  Deputies  of  the  Corps 
Legislatif  hastened  to  the  Tuileries.  Louder  than 
the  clamorous-tongued  fears  and  tremors  that  were 
ringing  in  these  royalists'  ears  were  the  terrifying 
shouts  to  be  heard  outside  of  the  palace: 

"A  bos  I'Empire!"  "A  bos  Napol&mt"  "Vive  la 
Republique!" 

To  emphasize  the  cries  there  were  the  premonitory 
tearing  down  of  railings,  of  tree-branches,  of  the  flux 
and  reflux  of  a  crowd  mad  with  the  drinking  of  the 
new  heady  wine  of  liberty,  now  pouring  its  waves 
against  barred  resistance,  and  now  swayed  by  the 
eloquence  of  a  street  orator — that  cheap  form  of  a 
bid  for  momentary  power  to  which  every  revolution 
gives  quick  birth. 

The    Deputies,   meanwhile,  were   pleading    with 

41 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Eugenie.  After  giving  full  details  of  the  recent 
momentous  charges,  they  bent  all  their  energies  to 
force  her  to  resign  as  Regent. 

The  Empress  would  not  have  been  Empress, 
having  tasted  the  intoxicating  cup  of  imperial  sway, 
and  she  certainly  would  not  have  been  a  woman,  had 
she  not  clung  to  some  fragment  of  power.  But  those 
dread  cries  without,  that  swelled  upon  the  air  like  a 
terrifying  prophecy  of  coming  horrors — "A  has!"  "A 
has!" — these  shouts  lent,  at  last,  convincing  strength 
to  the  Deputies'  clinching  arguments.  Were  the 
sovereigns  but  to  resign,  the  powers  both  of  the  new 
government  and  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  would  be 
greatly  strengthened  and  "France  would  be  saved." 

These  arguments  finally  prevailed.  In  accepting 
her  doom  and  that  of  the  Napoleonic  dynasty, 
Eugenie,  it  must  be  admitted,  even  by  her  detractors 
who  can  see  no  virtues  and  only  frailties  and  follies 
of  vanity  in  her — Eugenie  bore  herself  with  befitting 
dignity  in  this  critical  moment. 

"You  wish  it,"  she  said.  "Such  is  not  my  opinion. 
But  I  put  behind  me  all  personal  matters.  If  my 
Ministers  agree  with  you  concerning  the  measures 
you  propose,  the  obstacle  to  their  fulfilment  will 
not  come  from  me.  .  .  ." 

A  few  moments  before  she  had  said,  in  a  broken 
voice:  "Yes,  you  have  seen  me  the  crowned  sover- 
eign on  fete-days.  Hereafter  nothing  can  soften  the 
poignant  remembrance  of  the  present  hour.  I  shall 
wear  on  my  heart,  eternally,  all  the  sorrows  of 
France — tous  les  deuils  de  la  France." 

42 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

Somewhat  theatrical,  one  must  admit,  are  such 
fine  phrases;  such  they  seem  to  us  who,  in  our  gen- 
eration, speak  a  less  inflated  language.  But  Ro- 
manticism was  in  the  air,  Victor  Hugo  was  the  king 
of  poets  and  dramatists,  and  Eugenie  was  herself 
more  or  less  accused  of  knowing  and  practising  the 
arts  that  impose  on  those  the  other  side  of  the  foot- 
lights. 

While  Senators,  Deputies,  Councils,  and  Cabinets 
were  consulting  and  deliberating,  the  people  who 
govern  Paris  in  such  revolutionary  times  were  acting. 
The  sap  of  insubordination  had  risen  rapidly.  And 
the  ways  of  the  "people"  are  strikingly  similar. 
For  revolutions  all  bear  a  certain  family  resemblance, 
since  revolt  means  but  one  thing — revolt  against 
authority. 

The  trumpet-calls  of  "Aux  Tuileries!"  "Aux 
Tuileries!"  had  not  failed  of  their  clamorous  effect. 
The  populace,  surging  about  the  inclosed  private 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  attempted  to  force  the 
gates.  There  were  a  few  courageous  gentlemen 
among  the  crowd,  whose  quick  wits  and  whose 
sang-froid  prevented  are  petition  of  the  scenes  of  1830. 

Victorien  Sardou  (then  a  young  man,  the  great 
playwright-to-be),  General  Mellinet,  and  the  famous 
Ferdinand  de  Lesseps,  who  was  already  beloved  in 
Paris,  confronted  the  heated  crowd.  The  old  Gen- 
eral Mellinet's  deep  saber-cut  across  his  face, 
received  in  the  Crimean  War,  also  made  its  sen- 
sational appeal  to  the  masses  crying,  "A  bas 
I'Empire!" 

43 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Pointing  to  the  palace  flagpole  from  which  there 
floated  no  longer  the  imperial  flag,  the  general 
cried: 

"You  see,  there  is  no  longer  the  flag.  The  Em- 
press is  gone." 

Joyous  and  wild  were  the  shouts  that  followed  the 
announcement,  to  be  succeeded  by  the  cries,  "Vive 
la  Republique!" 

A  message  .having  been  sent  to  announce  to 
Eugenie  that  the  insurgents  were  attempting  to 
force  the  gates  of  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  those 
who  were  still  about  her  Majesty  urged  her  to  quit 
the  palace  while  there  was  still  a  chance  of  escaping. 
Anything,  everything  must  be  tried  rather  than 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  populace.  That  would 
mean — might  mean —  Alas!  what  horrors  had  not 
their  own  revolution — that  "harvest  of  long  cen- 
turies" taught  crowned  heads  whose  crowns  were 
tottering.  • 

The  Empress  still  showed  no  terror.  Yet  she  knew 
well  her  history.  Had  she  not  made  a  cult  of  col- 
lecting bibelots,  jewels,  furniture,  miniatures,  and 
portraits  of  her  sorrowful,  of  her  far  more  unfortunate 
predecessor,  Marie  Antoinette? 

While  the  air  of  Paris  about  her  ears  was  vibrant 
with  mad  cries  and  shouts,  its  Empress — who  had 
been  fighting  what  it  must  be  conceded  was  a  gal- 
lant fight  for  her  dynasty,  who,  whatever  her  sins 
of  frivolity,  of  an  undue  lust  for  power,  of  unwise 
and  ignorant  counsels,  and  use  of  all  possible  per- 
sonal influence  to  urge  Napoleon  to  make  this  dis- 

44 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

astrous  war — Eugenie's  wanting  in  personal  courage 
cannot  be  laid  to  her  charge. 

To  those  who  surrounded  her  in  that  last  hour,  all 
of  whom  were  urging  immediate  flight,  she  repeat- 
edly assured  these  her  all-too-few  true  friends:  "I 
am  not  afraid.  Why  should  I  go?" 

Again,  she  answered  the  pleas  of  the  more  im- 
portunate, "It  is  here  I  was  placed  by  the  Emperor, 
and  here  I  shall  remain.  .  .  ." 

The  cries  of  "A ux  Tuileries!"  "Aux  Tuileries!" 
were  now  rolling  in  thunderous  tones  from  the  already 
invaded  gardens. 

Prince  Metternich,  the  Austrian  Ambassador,  and 
Monsieur  Nigra,  the  Italian  Ambassador,  presently 
hurried  into  the  palace,  demanding  immediate  audi- 
ence. 

"The  populace  is  mistress  of  the  Palais  Bourbon 
— is  preparing  to  attack  the  Tuileries.  The  Empress 
must  be  made  to  understand  that  all*  resistance  is 
useless.  She  remains  here  at  the  risk  of  her  life. 
We  come  to  offer  her  our  protection." 

It  required  the  further  assurance  of  Monsieur 
Pietri,  Prefet  de  Police,  that  in  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
"it  is  impossible  to  say  what  she  might  be  able  to 
do,  what  crime  she  might  commit  were  she  to 
remain." 

Convinced  at  last  she  was  endangering  the  lives 
of  the  few  friends  and  courtiers  who  had  remained 
faithful  to  this  last  hour  of  her  reign  as  Empress, 
Eugenie  consented  to  take  her  flight.  Her  adieus 
to  those  about  her  were  so  prolonged  that  the  Italian 

45 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Ambassador  was  forced  to  cry,  imploringly,  "You 
must  hasten — in  a  few  moments  flight  will  be  im- 
possible!" And  he  himself  hurriedly  handed  her  her 
hat  and  veil. 

Followed  by  the  two  Ambassadors,  by  certain 
officers  and  heads  of  the  Emperor's  Cabinet,  and  by 
Madame  Le  Breton,  her  reader  and  damedecompagnie, 
the  party  slipped  through  a  private  door  of  the  Em- 
press's apartments.  In  one  of  these  rooms  Eugenie 
stopped  short.  Glancing  around  the  well-known 
souvenirs,  the  pictures,  baskets,  bibelots,  with  which 
the  cozy,  homelike  room  was  crowded,  she  cried, 
as  though  to  herself,  "Is  it  really  for  the  last  time?" 

As  this  now  uncrowned  sovereign  pursued  her 
flight  in  her  once  owned  palace,  now  retracing  her 
steps,  the  door  leading  to  the  court  of  the  palace 
having  been  found  too  dangerous  for  exit,  the  crowds 
surging  about  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  crying,  "A 
mort!"  "A  mort!";  now  regaining  the  very  apart- 
ments the  party  had  quitted  in  such  haste;  next, 
she  and  her  friends  taking  their  way  through  the 
interminable  series  of  rooms  leading  to  the  galleries 
of  the  Louvre,  only  to  find  the  door  opening  into  the 
galleries  securely  locked;  living  through  the  agi- 
tated, tremulous  excitement  of  no  answer  save  dumb 
silence  to  repeated  knocks;  quivering  to  the  sudden, 
stunned  realization  that  their  sole  means  of  escape 
was  thus  cut  off;  lifted  to  sudden  sense  of  rapturous 
relief  by  the  all  but  miraculous  appearance  of  the 
Treasurer  of  the  Emperor,  with  the  key  of  the  open 
door  to  safety  before  them  in  his  pocket;  then  the 

46 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

hurried  rush  across  the  Salon  Carre,  the  Pavilion 
d'Apollon,  down  to  the  Salles  des  Antiquites  Grecques 
et  Egyptiennes;  the  swift  glance  shot  at  the  seated 
figures  of  those  long  dead  and  gone  Egyptian  kings 
and  queens,  as  though  passing  in  review  those  other 
dynasties  whose  reigns  also  had  ended  in  dust  and 
ashes — and — at  last — at  last — with  the  furtive  open- 
ing of  the  last  door,  after  a  particularly  turbulent 
crowd  has  passed  the  Place  Saint-Germain  1'Auxer- 
rois,  there  came  the  blessed  freshness  of  the  open 
air — the  sudden  hush  of  a  great  quiet  after  the  dying 
away  of  the  fearsome,  vociferous  shouts. 
Was  it  indeed  freedom — was  it  safety — yet? 


in 

The  Empress's  flight,  in  reality,  had  but  begun. 

To  the  party  in  flight,  once  away  from  the  Tuile- 
ries  apartments,  the  palace  walls  had  seemed  to 
offer  some  shadow  of  security.  Once  outside  the 
palace,  facing  the  open  street,  and  every  instant  was 
fraught  with  danger. 

Eugenie's  features  were  as  well  known  as  must  be 
any  faces  constantly  before  a  public  as  sensible  to 
beauty  and  to  personal  charm  as  are  Parisians. 
The  Empress's  daily  drives  in  the  Bois,  her  repeated 
appearances  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  in  an  open 
landau,  in  the  imperial  tribunals  of  the  race- 
courses, at  operas  and  theaters,  at  fetes,  as  well  as 
the  innumerable  photographs  reproducing  her  in 
every  possible  pose  and  in  every  costume,  had 

47 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

familiarized  Eugenie's  classical  style  of  Spanish 
beauty  to  every  gamin  of  the  gutter  as  to  every 
boulevardier. 

The  much-dreaded  danger  of  immediate  recogni- 
tion, therefore,  was  not  long  in  announcing  its  fate- 
ful possibilities. 

"Voila  rimperatrice!"  ("There's  the  Empress!") 
cried  a  street  boy,  gazing  hard  at  the  pale  but  clas- 
sically perfect  face  beneath  the  derby  hat. 

"What  is  that  you  say?"  with  astonishingly  quick 
presence  of  mind,  asked  Monsieur  Nigra.  And  taking 
the  lad  aside,  he  managed  to  keep  him  interested 
while  Prince  Metternich  hurried  the  two  ladies — the 
Empress  and  Madame  Le  Breton — into  the  shabby 
cab  awaiting  them. 

This  public  vehicle,  it  had  been  decided,  was  far 
safer  for  traversing  the  streets  filled  with  excited 
crowds  and  insurgents  than  would  be  the  Prince 
Imperial's  private  coupe,  with  all  its  liveries  and  the 
Prince's  crown,  awaiting  orders  below  the  Prince 
Imperial's  apartments. 

The  group  which  had  started  with  the  Empress 
from  the  palace  apartments  had  now  been  consid- 
erably reduced  in  numbers. 

A  second  parting  scene  took  place,  in  which  tears 
and  touching  farewells  had  been  exchanged  between 
the  fleeing  Empress  and  this  little  band  of  faithful 
courtiers.  For  the  Empress  to  have  appeared  in 
the  open  streets  with  as  numerous  a  company  as  the 
groups  that  had  followed  her  was  deemed  unsafe. 

Once  seated  in  the  cab,  the  two  ladies  shrank  into 

48 


EMPRESS   EUGENIE 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

the  depths  of  the  little  vehicle,  after  the  two  Am- 
bassadors had  made  their  adieus. 

The  Empress  Eugenie,  with  her  companion,  now 
began  through  the  streets  of  Paris  their  melancholy 
search  for  their  safest  hiding-place.  Neither  the 
Prince  de  Metternich  nor  Monsieur  Nigra  seemed 
to  have  considered  it  a  part  of  their  duties  at  least  to 
have  further  counseled  the  Empress  as  to  her  im- 
mediate destination.  The  two  ladies,  thus  left 
alone  in  broad  daylight,  exposed  to  any  chance  en- 
counter which  might  easily  bring  about  the  worst 
of  fates,  having  hastily  given  orders  to  their  driver 
to  take  them  to  a  certain  number  in  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann — the  residence  of  the  State  Counselor — 
one  of  them  was  living  through  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  experiences  a  dethroned  monarch  ever 
encountered. 

The  cabby  had  quite  naturally  driven  his  fare 
straight  into  the  broad  thoroughfare  of  the  rue  de 
Rivoli.  On  and  on,  past  the  fagades  facing  the 
famous  street,  past  the  palaces — hers  never  to  be 
again — of  the  Louvre  and  the  Tuileries;  past  the 
arcades;  and  also — most  heart-sickening  of  all — past 
the  still  brilliantly  flowered  private  gardens  of  the 
Prince  Imperial,  where  he  had  been  trundled  as  a 
baby,  where  his  first  infant  steps  had  been  taken, 
where  as  a  boy  and  lad  he  had  romped  and  played — 
the  heedless  cab-driver,  like  fate  itself,  as  ruthless 
and  seemingly  as  unconsciously  cruel,  had  driven 
the  Empress  past  these  palaces  and  gardens  as 
though  to  impose  upon  her  a  final  review  of  all  the 

49 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

beauty,  the  tender,  familiar  scenes,  and  also  of  all 
the  splendor  she  must  leave  behind  forever. 

No  drop  of  the  bitter  cup  of  defeat,  of  loss,  of 
coming  expatriation  was  to  be  spared  Eugenie. 

The  Republic  had  come! 

The  news  of  the  proclamation  that  the  hated 
Third  Empire  had  collapsed  like  a  pack  of  cards; 
that  the  Empress  had  fled;  that  the  Tuileries,  as 
had  the  Corps  Legislatif,  had  been  entered  by  the 
"people" — but  where,  so  admirably  guarded  did  the 
intending  pillagers  find  the  palace  and  all  its  rooms 
and  treasures,  no  booty  nor  desecration  could  be 
indulged  in — this  glorious,  unbelievably  astounding 
news  had  flown  over  every  quarter  of  Paris.  No 
more  hateful  spying;  no  more  autocratic  discipline 
and  policed  existences;  no  more  wasteful  enriching  of 
useless  monarchs  and  courtiers;  no  more  enslaving 
of  a  great  people — the  new  Republic  was  just  born 
and  its  gifted  godfathers  were  guaranty  of  its 
longevity. 

The  mounting  of  the  tidal  wave  of  new  forces, 
new  life,  new  ideals  was  carrying  the  packed  crowds 
that  filled  the  streets  to  demonstrate  their  joy  and 
sense  of  deliverance  from  hated  despotism  in  the 
exuberant,  intensive  French  way.  Men  and  women 
could  be  seen  embracing  one  another;  old  and  young 
wept  as  they  shouted  the  new  watchwords  of  "Lib- 
erty, Equality,  and  Fraternity."  Already,  in  these 
few  brief  hours,  the  brute  instinct  to  demolish,  to 
plunder,  to  kill  had  been  transformed  by  joy  into 

more  human  manifestations  of  delight.    All  Paris 

M 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

was  literally  en  fete;  the  Parisian  soul  was  supplying 
the  lighting. 

Thus,  with  ears  ringing  with  the  exultant  shouts 
of  a  happy  people,  with  the  long-suppressed  soaring 
notes  of  the  "Marseillaise"  filling  the  air,  through 
street  scenes  in  which  dances  and  embraces  played 
themselves  out  before  all  the  world,  the  sad-eyed 
Empress  and  her  sole  lady  companion  made  their 
way. 

It  was  reserved  for  Eugenie  alone  among  the  four 
preceding  monarchs  who  had  attempted  or  who 
had  achieved  their  flight  to  look  forth  upon  a  Re- 
public born  from  the  death-throes  of  despotism. 

Arrived  at  their  destination,  the  ladies  dismissed 
their  cab — an  imprudent  proceeding,  as  they  were 
soon  to  discover.  After  mounting  the  three  or  four 
flights  leading  to  the  Counselor's  apartment,  it  was 
only  to  face  fresh  disaster.  No  one  responded  to 
their  persistent  ringing.  Realizing  at  last  her  state 
of  fatigue,  induced  by  several  sleepless  nights,  and 
from  the  long  nervous  tension  of  these  past  terrible 
days  of  suspense,  of  anguish,  of  the  rallying  of  all 
her  forces  to  fight  against  the  relentless  powers  ar- 
raigned against  her,  the  exhausted  Empress  sat  her- 
self down  on  one  of  the  stairs  opposite  the  closed 
door. 

Just  a  year  before  this  fatal  date  for  the  Napo- 
leonic dynasty,  in  1869,  this  seated  figure,  awaiting 
response  to  an  unanswered  bell,  awaiting  the  ad- 
vent of  the  master  of  this  high-perched,  modest 

bourgeois  apartment,  as  her  possible  savior,  had  been 

51 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

queen  of  the  most  gorgeous  of  all  Oriental  fetes  and 
festivals.1 

The  Sultan  of  Turkey,  Abdul  Hamid,  fitly  to 
receive  the  Empress  of  the  French  come  to  Con- 
stantinople on  her  way  to  open  the  Suez  Canal, 
had  transformed  the  most  beautiful  of  modern  pal- 
aces on  the  Bosporus  (the  Palace  of  Beylerbey) 
into  a  French  palace.  Eugenie  arrived  to  find  the 
very  hangings  of  the  rooms  in  the  Tuileries  had  been 
copied.  From  this  most  festal  of  modern  Oriental 
palaces,  its  bright  marbles  set  so  close  to  the  water's 
edge  they  seemed  a  part  of  the  bright  surface;  out 
from  walls,  and  kiosks,  whose  latticed  windows  were 
goldened;  out  from  palace  chambers  redolent  of 
perfume;  out  from  gardens  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  roses,  clematis,  and  narcissi — the  Empress  went 
forth  to  fetes  and  scenes  that  must  have  seemed 
rather  the  phantasmagoria  of  a  poet's  dream  than 
reality. 

From  the  moment  of  her  reception  in  the  Golden 
Horn,  as  she  made  her  way  up  through  the  blue- 
hued  Bosporus  to  this  enchanted  palace,  the  Em- 
press of  the  French  lived  through  days  and  nights 
of  which  the  splendors  of  this  reception  were  but  the 
prelude. 

As  Eugenie  appeared,  seated  alone  on  the  raised 
dais  of  her  caique — one  specially  built  for  her  of 
polished  cedar,  with  its  gold  and  silver  ornaments, 
its  adornments  of  gorgeous  Eastern  silks  and  satins — 
in  all  the  splendor  of  her  beauty,  enhanced  by  her 

1  In  the  Palaces  of  the  Sultan,  1903,  Anna  Bowman  Dodd. 

08 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

Parisian  full-dress  costume,  wearing  her  diadem  of 
jewels  as  proudly  as  though  born  to  such  royal  dis- 
tinction, the  Sultan's  imperial  caique  shot  forth 
from  Dolma  Bagchtec  to  meet  her. 

As  the  cortege  now  floated  onward,  they  found 
the  Bosporus  crowded  with  every  variety  of  ships, 
steamers,  and  yachts.  In  thousands  of  caiques,  the 
dark  Oriental  eyes  of  hundreds  of  Turkish  women, 
clad  in  all  the  Eastern  glory  of  brilliant-hued  gar- 
ments, looked  out  above  their  gauze  yashmaks  on 
the  unveiled  Empress,  with  eyes  full  of  wonder,  on 
a  scene  as  novel  and  dreamlike  to  them  as  it  was  to 
their  European  guest. 

The  shouts  of  welcome  from  the  throngs  lining  the 
shores  were  only  louder  than  the  marine  bands' 
festal  music  rising  from  the  decks  of  the  various 
ships  assembled.  Fetes,  festivals,  banquets,  crowded 
the  days  and  nights  of  this  unique  and  wonder- 
yielding  visit. 

And  a  year — less  than  a  year — later  the  central 
figure  of  that  resplendent  scene  was  resting  on  the 
stairway  of  a  modest  French  apartment,  her  hus- 
band a  prisoner,  the  Empire  a  lost  cause,  the  where- 
abouts of  her  son,  the  Prince  Imperial,  an  eating 
anxiety,  and  she  herself  anxiously  questioning  where 
next  to  turn  for  succor,  for  safety. 

The  Counselor  and  his  household  failing  to  appear, 
the  weary  Empress  and  her  companion  conferred 
where  next  to  seek  an  entrance  into  the  household 
of  trusty  friends.  Mr.  Washburn,  the  American 

Minister,  was  thought  of;  but  his  diplomatic  duties 
5  53 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

might  prevent,  it  was  believed,  his  rendering  the 
necessary  aid.  The  American  name  suggested  an- 
other, that  of  Doctor  Evans,  an  old  friend,  the  oldest 
perhaps  in  France,  since  it  was  the  accident  of  a 
fortunate  dental  appointment  at  Doctor  Evans' 
office  that  chance  had  played  its  happy  trick  and 
made,  eventually,  of  Mademoiselle  de  Montijo,  the 
lovely  Spanish  girl,  an  Empress.1 

The  doors  of  the  famous  American  dentist,  in 
his  sumptuous  apartment  close  to  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile, 
were  opened,  and  the  doctor  shortly  appeared. 
Amazed,  astounded,  he  was  to  find  in  "the  two 
lady  visitors,"  announced  by  his  valet  de  chambre, 
the  Empress  and  Madame  Le  Breton. 


IV 

In  the  painfully  sad  explanations  the  Empress 
gave  her  friend  of  her  sorrowful  plight — "You  see 
I  am  no  longer  happy;  the  bad  days  have  come,  and 
I  am  abandoned,"  she  had  cried,  after  going  into 
detailed  narration  of  all  that  had  happened  since 

1  Mademoiselle  de  Montijo,  Comtesse  de  Tiba,  was  for  some  time  a 
patient  of  Doctor  Evans.  At  that  time  she  lived,  together  with  her 
mother  and  sister,  at  No.  12,  Place  Vendome.  A  friend  of  Napoleon 
Ill's,  then  Prince  President,  being  pressed  for  time,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  awaiting  his  turn  in  the  doctor's  office,  was  agreeably  surprised 
by  the  offer  of  a  surpassingly  beautiful  young  girl,  seated  beside  him, 
to  give  him  her  place.  On  inquiring  of  the  doctor  who  was  the  gracious 
beauty,  and  on  learning  her  name,  he  narrated  the  incident  to  the  Prince 
President.  On  hearing  her  charms  of  face  and  manner  thus  extolled, 
Napoleon  III  expressed  a  desire  to  have  the  mother  and  her  daughter 
presented.  A  short  time  after  their  names  appeared  regularly  on  the 
lists  of  those  invited  to  the  Palais  de  1'Elysde. 

54 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

the  news  of  Sedan  and  the  Emperor's  telegram — 
the  doctor,  having  assured  Eugenie  she  could  count 
absolutely  on  him  for  all  possible  help  and  succor, 
asked  her  Majesty: 

"Have  you  formed  any  plans,  have  you  any 
wishes  for  any  particular  project,  for  the  future?" 

The  Empress  immediately  confessed  her  longing 
to  go  as  quickly  as  possible  to  England.  There  she 
hoped  that  both  the  Emperor  and  the  Prince  Im- 
perial would  speedily  join  her. 

Doctor  Evans,  approving  of  the  plan,  announced 
he  would  make  immediate  preparations  for  leaving 
Paris. 

The  short  September  twilight  having  settled  into 
early  night,  the  doctor  insisted  on  his  guests  taking 
both  rest  and  nourishment.  Though  the  Empress 
at  first  rebelled,  desiring  to  leave  Paris  at  once,  she 
finally  acquiesced.  Her  presence  in  the  house  was 
kept  a  profound  secret,  even  from  the  servants,  the 
valet  who  had  led  them  in  presuming  the  two  ladies 
long  since  had  departed. 

While  the  Empress  and  her  friend  were  seeking 
what  proved  to  be  vain  efforts  to  woo  sleep,  Doctor 
Evans  and  his  assistant,  Doctor  Crane,  spent  the 
night  in  planning  the  escape  from  Paris  into  the  open 
country. 

Deauville,  it  was  decided,  was  to  be  the  objective 
point.  Mrs.  Evans  was  passing  the  month  at  the 
Hotel  de  Paris  at  the  latter  resort.  No  sojourn  would 
offer  better  security  than  the  suite  of  rooms  occupied 
by  the  doctor's  wife.  Deauville  was  a  port.  A 

55 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

yacht,  sailing-boat,  or  steam-launch  could  be  counted 
upon  for  them  to  take  passage  across  the  Channel. 

At  early  dawn,  about  half  past  five,  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  the  Empress  in  her  black  cash- 
mere gown,  a  water-proof  for  a  mantle,  white  collar, 
two  handkerchiefs — which  she  had  to  wash  fre- 
quently during  the  next  few  days — her  low  derby 
hat  and  veil,  with  neither  traveling-bag  nor  other 
covering  than  her  mackintosh,  began  her  odyssey. 

With  that  practical  foresight  so  eminently  Amer- 
ican, the  two  doctors  had  foreseen  several  of  the 
more  serious  dangers  they  might  have  to  face.  Cer- 
tain passports  the  Empress  had  brought  with  her 
had  been  carefully  examined;  the  one  chosen  was 

a  permit  to  allow  a  certain  Doctor  C to  take  a 

patient  to  England.  Signed  by  the  Prefet  de  Police 
of  Paris,  it  would  serve  admirably  the  purpose. 

Doctor  Crane  would  personate  the  Doctor  C , 

the  Empress  the  patient;  Doctor  Evans  was  to  figure 
as  the  latter's  brother,  and  Madame  Le  Breton  as 
her  nurse.  The  passport,  being  made  out  for  passage 
to  England,  made  the  voyage  thither  doubly  safe. 


The  sun  was  not  yet  risen,  Doctor  Evans  states 
in  his  excellent  and  detailed  narrative  of  this  tragic 
departure,  when  the  party  started.  Remembering 
that  it  had  been  Louis  XVTs  imprudent  head — 
thrust  through  the  open  window  at  Varennes,  on 
the  attempted  flight  of  the  king  and  Marie  Antoi- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

nette,  and  the  recognition  of  the  monarch's  pulpy 
features  and  bulky  frame,  to  which  the  indiscreet 
order,  shouted  aloud,  "to  go  to  Varennes,"  were  the 
convincing  proofs  that  had  brought  about  the  arrest 
of  the  king  and  queen,  their  imprisonment,  and 
eventually  their  death  on  the  scaffold,  Doctor  Evans 
had  placed  the  Empress  on  the  left  of  the  carriage, 
thus  screening  her  as  much  as  possible  from  the  sen- 
tinels posted  at  the  city's  gates. 

On  entering  the  vehicle,  into  the  depths  of  which 
Eugenie  sank,  she  began  playing  her  role  of  fatigued 
invalid. 

Through  the  foggy  thickness  of  the  September 
dawn  the  carriage  rolled  past  Paris,  at  its  early 
matutinal  toilet.  The  street-scavengers  were  clean- 
ing the  streets;  little  by  little  day  broke,  warm, 
still,  rosy.  Shopkeepers  were  soon  opening  shut- 
ters; men  and  women  were  hurrying  to  their  toil 
cityward,  and  belated  market-wagons  were  plod- 
ding toward  their  distant  stalls.  Paris  proved  her- 
self, on  this  day  after  an  Empire  had  been  over- 
turned, after  Sedan,  after  the  most  disastrous  news 
that  had  come  to  France  since  Waterloo,  and  after 
the  stormy  scenes  which  had  culminated  in  the 
quick  birth  of  a  Republic,  with  full  knowledge  the 
Germans  were  marching  on  the  city — Paris  yet 
proved  herself  the  industrious,  orderly,  sows-winning 
city  that  can  go  through  a  debauch  of  revolution 
on  any  day  and  night,  and  wake  up  sober  the  next 
morning. 

The   extraordinary  tranquillity  of   the  country- 

57 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

side — even  of  that  part  of  the  country  lying  along 
the  outer  boulevards  and  the  Seine  banks — as  the 
party  made  their  way  out  from  Paris  to  Rueil,  to 
La  Malmaison  and  to  Saint-Germain,  this  was  one 
of  the  surprises  that  were  noted  by  this  fleeing  party 
of  four.  This  amazing  quiet,  this  soothing  hush  of 
voices,  were  the  best  of  restoratives  to  nerves  that 
had  been  on  the  rack  for  long  days  and  nights. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  credit  the  turmoil,  the  pas- 
sionate scenes  of  anger  and  violence  of  the  day  be- 
fore— of  the  long  night.  Before  the  smiling  face  of 
this  charming  landscape,  following  the  greens  of 
meadows  and  the  peace  of  the  silently  flowing  Seine, 
how  believe  in  the  recording  memories  of  those  mad, 
swaying,  bloodthirsty  crowds  which,  once  the  Re- 
public proclaimed,  were  turned  into  the  joyous,  sing- 
ing, dancing  groups  that  made  all  Paris  seem  en  fete? 

Other  memories,  the  doctor  tells  us,  were  also 
evoked,  as  they  passed  on  a  road  crowded  with  his- 
toric souvenirs.  Only  twenty  years  ago  and  at 
Neuilly  there  had  stood  a  chateau  in  which  were  passed 
the  "happiest  days  of  my  life,"  records  the  Prince  de 
Joinville,  third  son  of  Louis  Philippe.  This  royal 
chateau  had  been  pillaged,  burnt,  and  all  but  de- 
stroyed by  the  easily  roused  to  furious  dealings  of 
the  French  populace — as  weary  in  1848  of  their 
constitutional  king,  Louis  Philippe,  as  they  had 
been  of  the  immortal  Napoleon  I. 

Soon  the  carriage-wheels  were  rattling  along  the 
cobble-paved  streets  of  Rueil,  in  whose  plain- 
visaged  church  are  the  tombs  of  the  Empress 

58 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

Josephine  and  Hortense.  Farther  on  lay  the  park 
of  La  Malmaison.  With  every  breath  of  the  now 
rising  morning  breeze  there  must  have  swept  before 
these  four  travelers  the  vivid  historic  splendors  and 
tragedies  of  which  La  Malmaison  had  been  the 
center:  Josephine,  as  the  youthful  pensionnaire  at 
her  near-by  school,  eyeing  the  chateau,  even  as  a  girl, 
with  envious  eyes;  later,  its  proud  and  lavishly  ex- 
travagant mistress,  as  the  wife  of  Europe's  hero,  the 
Consul  Bonaparte.  And  for  all  the  "great  prop- 
erty" of  that  later  accumulated  splendor  and  glory, 
of  a  story  of  magnificent  adventure  outrivaling  all 
imagined  stories — behold  the  end — in  the  two  all- 
but-forgotten  graves  in  the  quiet  little  Rueil  church, 
while  the  greatest  man  since  Caesar  had  died  a  pris- 
oner on  a  hard  little  bed  on  a  rock-fortressed  island, 
in  alien  seas. 

Here,  surely,  must  Eugenie  have  felt  her  own 
woe  a  companion  picture  to  that  end  of  great, 
though  fretted,  fortunes. 

Hers  was,  at  least,  to  be  the  better  fortune. 

The  Porte  Maillot  had  been  safely  passed.  The 
well-conceived  plot  of  patient,  doctor,  brother,  and 
nurse  had  been  easily  accepted  for  truth  by  senti- 
nels and  gendarmes.  Saint-Germain,  Poissy,  Mantes 
—where  there  was  a'  successful  change  of  vehicles 
and  horses — as  far  as  Thibouville-la-Riviere,  the 
village  automobiles  now  pass  on  their  way  to  the 
Normandy  coast.  These  had  been  entered  and  left 
behind  with  tremors  as  every  town  was  approached, 
only  to  have  such  fears  allayed  and  assuaged. 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Everywhere  throughout  the  whole  of  the  long 
seventeen  hours'  journey  the  travelers  had  found 
that  France  was  traversing  an  historic  epoch  with 
a  calm  and  an  attitude  of  easy  acceptance  that 
announced  the  country's  sound  morale. 

Close  to  Evreux,  indeed,  fearsome  sounds — shouts, 
the  singing  of  the  "Marseillaise,"  a  crowd  of  peasants 
and  townspeople  waving  flags,  with  arms  sawing  the 
air,  awoke  renewed  anxiety.  It  was  only  a  pastoral 
way  of  celebrating  the  birth  of  La  Republique. 

At  Thibouville-la-Riviere  the  second  most  serious 
danger  confronted  the  party.  At  ten  at  night  it  was 
found  that  no  farther  progress  could  be  made.  The 
Empress  and  her  friends  had  to  be  content  to  pass 
the  night  in  a  miserable  inn.  Every  room  was  filled. 
It  was  solely  owing  to  the  courtesy  of  a  certain 
coachman,  who  had  already  gone  to  take  possession 
of  the  last  available  chamber,  that  a  bed  was  pro- 
curable for  a  "poor  lady,"  too  weary  to  proceed  on 
her  journey,  and  for  her  "nurse." 

It  was  at  Lisieux  that  perhaps  the  most  pathetic 
episode  of  this  odyssey  of  the  imperial  flight  occurred. 

Having  been  conveyed  so  far  as  Serquiny  by 
train,  no  vehicles  being  available,  and  a  compartment 
in  the  train  having  been  found  happily  vacant,  from 
this  junction  of  Serquiny  on  to  Lisieux,  it  was  at 
the  latter  little  picturesque  city  that  one  might  have 
beheld  a  picture  such  as  proves  the  way  of  fate  with 
mortals  who  have  been  set  above  their  fellows. 

A  figure,  tall,  stately,  yet  stooping  as  though 
weighed  beneath  some  burden  of  misfortune  or  of 

60 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

sorrow,  might  have  been  seen  standing  beneath  the 
porte-cochere  of  a  carpet-factory.  Pale  as  was  the 
face,  with  lines  deeply  indented  from  loss  of  sleep 
and  eating  cares,  yet  head  and  face  were  still  proudly 
held.  The  rain  was  pouring  down  pitilessly.  And 
this  lady,  standing,  was  seemingly  waiting  for  the 
shower  to  cease. 

"When  I  arrived  at  the  street  leading  to  the  sta- 
tion, I  saw  the  Empress  standing  under  the  rain,  at 
the  opening  of  the  factory,  seemingly  alone,  present- 
ing such  a  perfect  picture  of  abandonment  as  I  shall 
never  forget,"  Doctor  Evans  tells  us  in  his  interest- 
ing account  of  the  journey. 


VI 

The  remainder  of  the  journey  was  thenceforward 
accomplished  without  further  incident. 

A  suitable  vehicle  had  been  found  at  Lisieux,  and 
the  thirty-five-odd  kilometers  to  Deauville  were 
made  along  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  Normandy 
roads. 

In  the  happy  consciousness  of  the  knowledge  that 
the  journey  was  nearing  its  end,  the  travelers  at 
last  found  relief  from  their  days'  and  nights'  anxiety 
in  exchanging  experiences  and  in  recounting  some 
of  the  amusing  episodes  of  the  flight.  Madame 
Le  Breton,  in  one  cafe  along  the  road,  had  made  the 
coffee;  in  another,  the  only  luncheon  obtainable  for 
the  Empress  had  been  a  bologna  sausage,  bread  some 
two  yards  long,  and  wine  and  cheese.  Eugenie  pro- 

61 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

duced  her  two  handkerchiefs,  which  were  the  only 
articles  that  she  had  brought  with  her  and  which 
she  had  carefully  washed  and  as  carefully  pressed. 
At  Thibouville-la-Riviere  Mademoiselle  de  Montijo 
was  reappearing,  now  that  the  ermine  mantle  of 
royalty  was  slipping  off. 

Better  even  than  the  relief  which  permitted  smiles 
and  a  philosophy  of  acceptance — "When  we  are  not 
pushed  to  necessity  we  do  not  suspect  our  aptitude 
to  do  certain  things,"  the  Empress  had  said — better 
than  a  semi-reconquered  gaiety  was  the  taste  of  salt 
on  the  lip.  For  the  sea  was  sweeping  its  fresh  breath 
across  the  lovely  Pont-FEveque  plains,  up  through 
the  romantic  valley  of  the  Touques,  across  whose 
verdant  plains  and  under  whose  richly  foliaged  trees 
another  queen — one  dead  long  centuries — looked  out, 
it  is  said,  for  many  a  long  day  from  the  ramparts 
of  a  certain  chateau  whose  walls  are  still  standing, 
to  hear  news  of  the  taking  of  England  by  her  lord, 
William,  soon  to  be  known  as  "the  Conqueror." 

VII 

For  those  who  delight  in  decking  historic  episodes 
with  the  tinsel  of  romance,  the  Empress's  flight  was 
to  culminate  in  an  entrance  to  the  Deauville  hotel 
through  secret  doors.  The  party  were  also  to  con- 
front, further,  all  but  insurmountable  difficulties  in 
the  reluctance  of  an  English  nobleman  to  convey 
an  Empress  in  flight  to  England  in  his  yacht. 

Doctor  Evans  was  able  to  effect  the  Empress's 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

entrance  into  Mrs.  Evans*  private  apartments  in 
the  Hotel  de  Paris,  at  Deauville,  with  utmost  se- 
crecy. He  led  the  way  to  a  little  door  opening  on 
a  garden,  through  which  he  could  insure  Eugenie's 
presence  in  the  Evanses'  rooms  being  unknown  to 
either  proprietor,  servants,  or  guests. 

Once  in  the  spacious  security  of  these  hotel  rooms, 
it  must  have  seemed  to  the  weary  Empress  that 
safety  and  peace  were  greeting  her  in  the  warmth 
of  the  sympathetic  welcome  extended  by  Mrs. 
Evans. 

There  were  to  be,  however,  only  a  few  hours  of 
this  most  grateful  sense  of  security,  in  this  enjoyment 
of  tried  friendship,  as  well  as  in  the  physical  and  ma- 
terial comforts  of  luxurious  apartments. 

The  ever-pursuing  shapes  of  fear  lest  at  any  mo- 
ment the  fleeing  Empress  might  be  tracked,  arrested, 
and  taken  back  to  Paris  sent  the  indefatigable 
doctor  at  once  to  the  Deauville  docks.  His  one 
hope,  his  driving  purpose,  was  to  have  his  Empress- 
friend  sent  safely  forth  on  her  voyage  to  English 
shores. 

His  inquiries  at  the  Deauville  port  elicited  the 
news  that  an  English  yacht  was  to  sail  for  England 
the  very  next  morning.  In  the  owner,  Sir  John 
Burgogne,  the  doctor  found  the  typical  English 
gentleman.  Sir  John  had  served  in  his  Majesty's 
army;  he  was  proud  of  his  yacht,  delighting  in  show- 
ing off  its  good  points.  With  characteristic  English 
bluntness,  he  refused  point-blank,  on  hearing  Doctor 
Evans'  demand  to  undertake  the  adventurous  task 

03 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  embarking  as  dangerous  a  guest  as  a  French  Em- 
press, flying  for  her  very  life,  and  of  being  responsible 
for  her  safety,  to  England.  Sir  John  gave  several 
excellent  but  inacceptable  reasons  to  the  two  Amer- 
icans for  this  somewhat  cavalier  refusal.  Although 
he  had  to  acknowledge,  in  fronting  the  amazed  doc- 
tor's outcries,  that  the  Empress  was  in  danger  every 
moment  she  remained  on  French  soil,  yet  he  an- 
nounced his  refusal  as  irrevocable.  That  Sir  John 
was  a  true  Englishman  at  core,  however,  was  soon 
proved.  When  Doctor  Evans,  indignant,  yet  dis- 
guising a  state  approaching  anger  under  a  coat  of 
courtesy,  stated  he  had  seen  another  yacht,  one 
smaller  than  Sir  John's,  one  which  he  was  quite 
certain  could  be  obtained  for  their  purpose,  the 
Englishman's  prudence  gave  way  before  his  fear  of 
disastrous  consequences  to  a  woman — and,  above  all, 
to  a  crowned  head — in  distress. 

The  smaller  yacht  "would  never  do,"  Sir  John 
declared.  Bad  weather  was  coming  on,  the  seas 
were  high,  and  so  small  a  craft  could  never  live  in 
such  seas  as  might  roll  up. 

"Go  and  see  my  wife.  If  Lady  Burgogne  consents 
to  the  Empress  coming  on  board,  she  can  come." 

Lady  Burgogne  did  not  need  persuasion.  A  lady 
was  in  distress;  that  the  proposed  guest  happened 
to  be  as  distinguished  a  personage  as  the  Empress 
Eugenie  seeking  safety  for  her  very  life  in  England 
was  more  than  a  compelling  reason  for  coming  to 
her  rescue. 

Once  again,  therefore,  before  the  early  breaking  of 

64 


THE  FLIGHT  OP  AN  EMPRESS 

a  tempestuous  dawn,  the  Empress  set  forth  with  her 
devoted  friend  and  Madame  Le  Breton.  In  fitful 
gusts,  a  strong  nor' wester  tore  through  tree-branches, 
whipping  the  keen  air  to  stinging  cold.  The  dull 
moon  was  chased  in  and  around  by  murky  clouds, 
the  pallid  moonbeams  only  making  blacker  the  utter 
darkness.  No  light  nor  lanterns  could  guide  the 
party  on  their  way;  past  the  Place  de  Morny,  down 
the  rue  du  Casino,  nowadays  as  familiar  to  Deauville 
and  Trouville  visitors  as  is  la  rue  de  la  Paix;  on  and 
on  through  puddles,  into  which^the  two  ladies  splashed 
ankle-deep,  stumbling  against  piles  of  lumber,  knock- 
ing against  railings  and  street  debris;  dirty,  wet,  with 
clothes  drenched  and  with  boots  clogged  with  mud, 
at  last  the  satiny  deck  of  the  Gazelle  was  reached. 
The  gracious  welcome  extended  to  the  distinguished 
fugitive  was  as  gratifying  as  was  the  reviving  hot 
punch  proffered. 

Eugenie's  trials  were  not  yet  ended.  As  though 
the  fates  had  joined  hands  to  make  merry  over  fallen 
grandeur,  the  seas  were  to  join  in  wild,  tempestuous 
dances.  No  sooner  had  the  Gazelle  put  out  from  port 
than  she  fronted  gales  such  as  captain  and  owner 
never  before  remembered  to  have  experienced.  In 
lieu  of  the  few  short  hours  Sir  John  had  reckoned 
would  land  them  on  the  English  coast,  there  were 
nearly  twenty-four  hours  of  battling  with  seas  such 
that  each  monster  wave  promised  to  engulf  the 
boat.  Again  and  again  some  of  those  on  board  gave 
themselves  up  for  lost. 

"I  was  certain  we  were  lost,"  the  Empress  ad- 

65 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO   THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

milled  laler,  "bul,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  I  ex- 
perienced no  fear.  If  I  disappear  now,  I  said,  dealh 
cannol  come  al  a  betler  moment,  nor  give  me  a 
more  desirable  lomb." 

Al  lasl  Ihe  Isle  of  Wight  showed  its  shores.  And 
slill  Ihere  was  the  night  lo  face  and  mounlainous 
seas  lo  fighl.  The  Empress  seemed  lo  have  escaped 
imprisonmenl  and  possible  dealh  only  lo  find  in 
Ihis  savagery  of  Ihe  elemenls  a  fiercer  foe. 

Her  fate  was  not  to  die — but  to  live  on  and  on. 
She  was  to  see  her  husband  return,  a  broken  man, 
from  defeat  and  disasler  worse  lhan  Ihe  dealh  he 
had  so  coveled.  Eugenie  was  lo  make  as  grave  a 
mislake  in  Ihe  ruling  of  lhal  fine  crealure,  her  son, 
as  she  had  in  allempling,  in  her  ignorance  and  folly, 
lo  guide  and  direcl  a  greal  nalion.  She  was  lo  live 
lo  see  Ihe  France  she  deemed  only  a  Napoleon  and 
his  despolic  governmenl  could  save  leap  lo  renascenl 
vigor,  proving  forces  and  qualilies  il  had  needed 
democracy  lo  develop  lo  fullesl  capacily. 

She  was  lo  live  on  lo  see  Ihe  ocular  proofs  of 
France's  viclories  pass  her  very  doors — viclories  won 
by  a  free  people,  fighting  their  own  fighl  for  a  free 
France. 

Forly-odd  years  laler  Ihe  Republic  was  lo  prove 
lo  an  amazed,  eleclrified  world  lhal  a  free  people, 
under  a  free  governmenl,  could  oulrival  in  Sparlan 
endurance,  in  splendor  of  mililary  achievemenl,  and 
in  heroic  self-sacrifice  all  Ihe  hisloric  records  of 
Greece  or  Rome. 

As  a  while-haired  old  lady,  her  years  slrelching 

66 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  AN  EMPRESS 

far  into  the  'nineties,  the  aged  ex-Empress  had  to 
stand,  leaning  on  her  cane,  a  year  or  more  ago,  to 
allow  a  long  line  of  German  prisoners  to  pass  across 
the  road  separating  the  woods  of  Farnborough  from 
her  own  inclosed  park  and  residence. 

Did  those  dim  eyes  take  a  backward  glance  into 
the  past  and  marvel  that  imperial  grandeur  failed 
where  a  bourgeois  people  and  government  have  won 
immortal  laurels? 


CHAPTER  IV 


TO  HONFLEUR — THE  ANCESTOR 


\A  7ITH  the  Deauville  of  the  after-the-war  gay 
*  *  days  I  had  no  business.  The  nouveaux  riches 
and  the  nouveaux  pauvres  who  crowd  the  stands  on 
the  day  of  Le  Grand  Prix,  the  crowds  who  fill  the 
golf-club,  the  casino,  and  the  beaches — with  none 
of  these  have  I  aught  to  do.  In  the  pursuit  of  pleas- 
ure the  gay  world  follows  there  are  disillusioning  un- 
certainties. I  was  off  on  a  bout  of  more  assured 
delight. 

Once  more  I  was  to  take  the  tidal  boat  at  Havre. 
On  this  occasion  it  was  to  cross  over  to  Honfleur. 
The  boat  was  what  we  Americans  would  call  an  early 
starter.  Were  one  bent,  as  was  I,  on  a  voyage  of 
discovery,  one  could  have  chosen  no  more  perfect 
moment.  It  was  indeed  so  matutinal  an  hour  I 
was  the  only  Columbus.  I  inwardly  saluted  each 
Havrais  market-woman  aboard  as  a  fellow-advent- 
urer; in  lieu  of  being,  it  is  true,  on  a  quest  for 
novelty,  these  thrifty  creatures  were  true  Normans, 
on  the  trail  of  a  good  bargain  at  the  Honfleur 
markets. 

68 


TO  HONFLEUR— THE  ANCESTOR 

This  short  cruise  across  the  mouth  of  the  Seine 
presented  so  uncommonly  animated  a  scene  I,  for 
one,  had  little  mind  for  exchanging  my  fauteuil 
d'orchestra,  as  one  might  term  my  seat  on  the  bridge, 
for  experiments  on  land.  All  those  historic  heads 
had  vanished.  Tragedies  could  not  relive  their  ter- 
rors under  such  skies. 

With  the  sun's  great  shining  on  earth  and  heaven, 
there  seemed  a  something,  a  sign,  as  it  were,  written 
above,  on  the  blue  zenith,  to  serve  as  a  promise 
one  were  going  to  another,  to  a  different  world. 
Busy  trafficking,  clamoring  exchanges,  active  con- 
sulates, and  great  ships,  sovereigns  flying  for  their 
lives — all  this  modern  world  was  like  a  page  already 
conned  and  the  leaf  turned  down. 

The  sun  itself  shone  with  another  brightness  on 
these  Seine  waters.  It  was  now  the  true  Normandy 
sun.  In  summer,  when  the  sun  pours  out  its  gold 
on  Norman  lands  or  water,  sober  Normandy  laughs 
— that  is,  when  among  tree-branches  or  along  pebbly 
beaches  it  is  not  singing. 

Over  these  sparkling  waters  there  was  the  best 
of  company  afloat.  There  was  such  a  varied  col- 
lection of  craft  as  for  four  and  more  long  years  the 
Seine  has  proudly  carried,  with  due  sense  of  its  im- 
portance as  the  great  watery  highway.  There  were 
still  camouflaged  ships,  but  these  were  going  the 
right  way  now — they  were  heading  for  their  home 
ports.  There  were  long  strings  of  lesser  ships,  towed 
by  smoking,  bustling  torpedoes  snorting  the  snort 
of  the  small  in  stature.  As  fresh  proofs  of  the  recent 

6  69 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

peace  there  were  the  heavily  laden  Norwegian  ships, 
their  decks  piled  high  with  lumber  from  Norway's 
forest-lands — those  woods  that  are  to  be  soon  the 
reconstructed  homes  of  thousands  in  devastated 
France. 

For  lively  motion  and  grace,  there  were  the  sea- 
gulls, dipping,  soaring,  squealing.  For  poetry,  there 
were  the  boats  that  turn  the  plainest-faced  water- 
way into  a  poet's  corner,  and  there  was  a  fishing- 
fleet  sailing  along  as  only  boats  with  true  sails  step 
the  waters.  Their  carmine,  yellow,  white,  and 
brown  sails  were  printed  against  the  blues  of  this 
summer  heaven. 

Between  the  sudden  warmth  of  the  day,  between 
the  dazzle  of  the  glistening  Seine,  between  this  novel 
sense  of  going  on  a  voyage  of  discovery,  one  had  a 
heady  feeling.  The  great  breath  of  the  river-mouth 
seemed  a  promise  of  large  adventure. 

On  rounding  the  Honfleur  pier  there  was  no  dis- 
illusioning break  in  this  fantastic  hope.  We  were 
fronting  a  little  world  a  thousand  miles  away  from 
commercial  Havre,  from  frivolous  modern  Deau- 
ville. 

In  point  of  fact,  we  were  to  slip  back,  in  landing  on 
the  Honfleur  quay,  exactly  three  hundred  years.  We 
were,  at  first,  a  little  bewildered  at  the  plunge.  It 
is  not  given  to  every  one  to  take  the  right  mental 
dive,  at  the  first  moment  of  encounter,  into  a  seven- 
teenth-century town.  It  seemed  incredible  as  great 
a  contrast  could  be  presented  between  bustling,  up- 
to-date  Havre  and  this  ancient-faced  town.  But 

70 


TO  HONFLEUR— THE  ANCESTOR 

herein  lies  the  hold  France  has  on  the  world — it  is 
the  land  of  contrasts. 

Honfleur  presented  itself,  at  the  first  glance,  as 
possessing  the  right  ancestral  charm. 

There  was  a  bewildering  medley  of  streets  running 
riot  up  and  down  hill,  and  of  fishing-boats  so  close 
to  stone  quays  they  seem  to  have  sprung  from  their 
very  bowels.  There  were  other  streets  starting  off, 
running  away  up  hill  and  down,  as  though  pirates 
were  about  to  loot  them. 

That  the  charm  of  the  unexpected  may  be  com- 
plete, Honfleur  presents  you,  at  the  very  outset, 
with  an  antique  gateway,  still  guarding  its  docks, 
all  but  tumbling  into  them,  in  fact,  with  a  church 
that  turns  its  back  on  you,  as  might  a  ship  showing 
you  its  stern;  and  with  a  beautiful  wooden  belfry 
that  is  a  true  belfry,  yet  one  which  is  also  a  house, 
a  magazine  in  which  to  store  things,  and  which  has  a 
clock  that  never  goes — like  the  town  itself  that  is  not, 
nor  ever  will  be,  up  to  the  hour  of  the  present  day. 

However  much  one's  feet  may  ache  to  go  off  on  a 
walking-tour  about  those  irregular,  rioting  little 
streets,  the  curious  gateway  we  were  to  learn  was 
"La  Lieutenance"  enchains  one.  This  delightful 
survival  of  Honfleur's  fortifications  has  as  many 
magics  of  attractions  as  a  heroine  of  romance.  Its 
tiled  roof,  its  steep  steps,  its  single  audacious  tree — 
one  seemingly  suspended  in  midair — its  library, 
its  garden,  its  pale  brick  and  gray  facings,  and  above 
all  other  embellishments  its  coquettish  turrets,  be- 
tween which,  like  a  rare  jewel  in  an  antique  setting, 

71 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

there  stood  a  Virgin  under  glass — no — there  was  no 
resisting  the  appeal  of  so  many  contradictory  feat- 
ures. 

Old  as  is  the  gateway,  we  were  to  find  the  past 
incarnate  in  the  living  present.  The  Virgin  as  one 
proof  that  "La  Lieutenance"  was  serving  an  up-to- 
date  usage,  yet  one  as  old  as  the  gods.  The  Virgin,  I 
saw,  was  shrined  in  a  bower  of  roses. 

La  Lieutenance,  so  named  as  having  been  formerly 
the  headquarters  of  the  king's  lieutenant,  its  foun- 
dations being  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  building 
itself  having  been  erected  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
was  formerly  protected  by  a  crenelated  bastion  and 
surrounded  by  a  moat. 

Le  Chemin  des  Rois,  starting  at  Rouen  and  going 
to  Caen,  passed  through  Honfleur.  What  a  long  pro- 
cession of  notabilities  have  taken  the  journey  that 
used  to  prolong  itself  into  days  and  even  weeks! 
Charles  VIII  knew  Honfleur,  since  he  must  climb  its 
hills,  from  the  port,  on  his  way  to  Mont-Saint-Michel; 
Henri  IV  and  his  queen,  Marie  de  Medicis,  with  a 
numerous  suite,  saw  the  town  in  its  seventeenth- 
century  picturesque  aspect  (1603).  Louis  XIII  fol- 
lowed seventeen  years  later  to  besiege  Caen,  and  more 
than  a  century  later  on  two  travelers  who  little 
divined  the  tragic  future  in  store  for  them — the 
Due  de  Penthievre  and  the  lovely  Princesse  de  Lam- 
balle — must  have  looked  forth  on  that  town  of  1771 
with  as  amused  and  curious  eyes  as  do  we  in  noting 
its  ancient  features  still  remaining  in  this  our 

twentieth  century. 

72 


TO  HONFLEU&— THE  ANCESTOR 

When  the  Lieutenance  sat  for  its  portrait  to  such 
masters  of  the  brush  as  Corot,  Daubigny,  and 
Francois,  even  then  in  the  mid-nineteenth  century 
the  antique  face  of  the  beautiful  gateway  framed  in 
that  more  medieval  town  than  the  one  we  know, 
these  great  artists  may  well  have  had  the  same  secret 
joy  of  the  discovery  of  Honfleur's  rare  beauty  as 
Boudin  did  when  he  revealed  through  his  pictures  at 
the  Salon  the  magnificence  of  the  Trouville  beaches 
to  the  amazed  Parisians  of  Napoleon  Ill's  day. 


Two  fishermen  were  utilizing  the  steps  leading  to 
the  "  Bibliotheque"  as  by  right  of  occupancy. 

They  were  mending  their  nets.  They  were  also 
smoking  their  black  pipes,  as  their  shuttles  glanced 
in  and  out  of  the  coarse  web.  Just  such  debonair, 
rugged-faced  sons  of  the  sea  have  sat  here,  on  these 
same  stones,  at  the  very  same  task,  their  lips  breath- 
ing gossip  and  their  breath  exhaling  the  acrid  odor 
of  old  Calvados — the  heady  Normandy  brandy — 
as  for  long  centuries  others  have  thus  ensconced 
themselves  in  this  cozy  corner. 

One  of  these  hardy  fishermen  slanted  an  eye,  as 
he  worked,  across  to  the  quay.  A  lively  dispute 
was  going  on  between  two  officers  in  khaki,  in  a  small 
military  car,  and  a  fishwife;  the  latter  was  standing 
beside  her  crates  of  freshly  landed  mussels.  The 
fishing-boats  had  just  come  in  and  their  elderly 
vendor  was  holding  her  own  against  the  sons  of  Mars. 

73 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  woman's  voice  rang  high  and  sharp.  Her 
pantomime  was  as  expressive  as  speech.  There  were 
dramatic  gestures;  the  ribbed  purplish  hands  pointed 
now  to  the  full  baskets,  with  their  wet,  shining  shells, 
still  mud-incrusted,  and  next  the  lean  arms  were 
pointing  skyward,  as  though  to  invoke  Heaven's 
connivance  in  supporting  the  price  demanded. 

"She'd  fleece  a  pawnbroker,"  dryly  remarked  the 
observing  net-repairer. 

The  woman  had  heard  the  compliment.  For  now 
she  had  won  her  battle.  The  dripping  basket  had 
been  lifted  into  the  car  and  the  officers  were  off  with 
a  laugh. 

The  fishwife  took  her  time  to  attend  to  the  less 
important  business  of  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  her 
assailed  honor.  Her  voice  now  cracked  upon  the  air: 

"And  you  —  where  do  your  sous  go,  you  lazy, 
good-for-nothing  louts?  Wine-sops  that  you  are, 
with  your  wives  in  rags,  and  your  children  crying  for 
bread!" 

Down  the  steep  steps  of  the  quay  the  woman 
plunged  presently,  her  own  sous  ringing  their  merry 
jingle  in  her  pocket.  The  men  laughed  the  easy,  in- 
different laughter  of  men  when  attack  comes  from 
a  quarter  outside  the  home  fortress. 


II 

The  church  that  reminded  one  of  a  ship,  we  found, 
had  been  perhaps  patterned  after  one.  The  interior 
of  Sainte-Catherine's  seems  the  replica  of  ja  boat  turned 

74 


TO  HONFLEUR— THE  ANCESTOR 

upside  down.  Its  cradle  roof  looked  uncommonly 
like  an  inverted  fishing-craft.  There  is,  indeed,  a 
legend  in  Honfleur  that  the  sailors  and  fisherfolk 
had  their  say  when  their  chief  church  was  a-building. 
It  was  to  be  entirely  of  wood,  like  unto  those  they 
had  seen  and  knelt  in  in  far-away  Norwegian  lands; 
and  as  nearly  as  possible  the  interior  roof  was  to  re- 
semble a  boat's  bottom.  The  church  is  in  reality 
of  the  flamboyant  order,  built  in  the  later  fifteenth- 
century  years.  There  were  some  panels  below  the 
organ-loft  in  which  were  some  beautifully  sculptured 
figures  carved  in  the  seventeenth-century  elaborate 
style. 

More  interesting  even  than  these  charming  sculpt- 
ures was  the  living  figure  of  a  priest  moving  about 
the  choir  and  altar.  Never  have  I  seen  a  priest  so 
entirely  at  home  in  his  church  as  was  this  Monsieur 
le  Doyen.  He  was  setting  chairs  to  rights;  he  was 
arranging  the  vases  of  flowers  on  the  altar;  and  he 
was  stepping  backward  with  the  air  of  an  anxious 
and  critical  housewife  to  mark  the  effect  of  his  com- 
bination of  the  gilt  candelabra  and  the  tall  lilies. 

He  was  calling  to  an  equally  active  youth,  also 
entirely  unabashed  by  ecclesiastical  surroundings, 
"Mon  petit,  be  sure  the  vestments  are  made  ready!" 

The  lad  dashed  down  a  pair  of  steps.  From  sub- 
terranean depths  there  came  in  response,  "They  are 
all  set  in  order,  Monsieur  le  Doyen." 

It  was  mon  petit  this  and  mon  petit  that  until  the 
altar  was  like  unto  a  bower,  finished  to  the  taste  of 

both  priest  and  acolyte.     There  was  next  a  most 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

decorative  effect  produced  by  the  massing  of  dozens 
of  flags.  These  flags  of  the  Allies  were  dexterously 
affixed  to  the  stout,  rude,  wooden  nave  pillars.  We 
left  the  two  still  at  work,  realizing  we  must  seek  in 
the  open  the  answer  to  this  feverish  haste  of  prepa- 
ration. 

At  the  Empire  church  porch  the  mystery  seemed 
rather  to  thicken. 

Two  stout  peasants,  clad  in  the  black  of  Sunday 
attire,  were  interchanging  remarks  that  hardly 
savored  of  piety: 

"Non,  la  Viezge  ne  dezouche  pas  ce  soir"  ("The 
Virgin  does  not  sleep  out  to-night — she  is  to  rest 

here"). 

"Ah-h!  Then  Saint-Leonard  is  to  be  slighted,  it 
seems."  Both  the  women  laughed,  as  though  the 
joke  had  a  peculiar  relish. 

A  saint  whose  feelings  were  being  thus  trifled  with ! 
A  holy  lady  whose  habits  at  night  seemed,  at  least, 
to  be  unusual;  a  busy  priest;  an  excited  acolyte — 
and  two  gossiping  townswomen  who  could  joke 
about  as  good  a  man  as  was  Saint-Leonard — dead 
though  he  had  been  all  these  years — it  scarcely 
needed  further  enlightenment  to  assure  the  dullest 
that  something  out  of  the  ordinary  was  to  take  place 
in  Honfleur. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  FETE   OF   THE   VIRGIN 


TTONFLEUR  appeared,  indeed,  to  be  stirred  by 
•*•  -••  some  form  of  unwonted  excitement.  Hurry- 
ing groups  of  townsfolk,  of  sailors,  and  old  fishwives 
were  moving  upward,  onward,  as  though  propelled 
by  common  desire  to  be  the  first  to  gain  some  center 
of  attraction. 

All  the  fisherfolk  were  deserting  the  quays. 
Gaudily  attired  sailors  were  issuing  from  every  dark, 
mysterious  alley  and  blind  court  with  the  swaggering 
gait  of  men  conscious  of  the  effective  aid  their  pres- 
ence must  lend  to  any  festal  occasion. 

Yet  the  crowd  as  a  crowd  was  sober-faced,  or  it 
would  not  have  been  a  Norman  gathering.  Gaiety 
and  laughter  come  after  a  libation  to  the  gods,  not 
before,  in  this  land  of  practical,  material-minded 
souls.  Be  it  a  bargain  with  Heaven  or  man,  the 
Norman  considers  gravity  proof  of  well-bred  de- 
corum as  well  as  donning  of  prudent  armor. 

On  this  occasion  it  was  the  town  rather  than  its 

people  which  gave  away  the  secret  of  the  day.    The 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

whole  town  was  en  fete.  Triumphal  arches,  garlands 
hung  from  tall  Venetian  standards,  flags  of  all  the 
Allied  nations,  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and  flowery 
wreaths  made  the  gray-faced  streets  and  houses 
wear  the  air  of  ancient  dames  bedecked  for  some 
royal  visit.  In  a  certain  sense,  a  royal  visit  it  was  to 
be  for  both  Honfleur  and  the  Honfleurais. 

The  fete  was  the  anniversary  of  the  "Crowning 
of  the  Virgin,"  of  the  famous  little  chapel  of  the 
Virgin,  on  the  C6te-de-Grace,  above  the  town. 

For  over  eleven  centuries  this^chapel  has  been  the 
one  to  which  fishermen  and  sailors  have  made  pil- 
grimage to  implore  protection,  on  starting  forth  on 
a  long  or  dangerous  voyage,  and  to  whose  shrined 
Virgin  they  bent  their  steps  to  proffer  praise  and 
thanks  for  answered  prayers. 

Six  years  ago  this  Lady  of  Mercy  was  crowned, 
with  a  state  and  splendor  worthy  of  her  great,  en- 
during renown.  For  this  Marie  of  the  Cote  possesses 
miraculous  powers;  she  stands  high  in  the  heavenly 
councils,  her  devotees  will  tell  you;  and  her  chapel, 
whose  walls  are  hung  with  ex-votos,  proves  a  record 
of  answered  prayers  and  a  potency  in  the  cure  of 
disease  second  only  to  her  sister  at  Lourdes. 

In  these  great  days  of  victory,  grateful  Honfleur 
and  her  ecclesiastical  guides  felt  impelled  to  proffer 
to  the  Virgin  renewed  proofs  of  their  gratitude  and 
reverence.  How  many  a  knee  has  been  bent  in  the 
dark  little  chapel,  to  breath  a  prayer  for  a  lover,  a 
husband,  a  son  at  the  front! 

I  was  to  have  convincing  proof  of  the  Virgin's 

78 


THE  FETE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

protective  powers.  A  wizened,  scarlet-faced  woman 
whose  work-worn  hands  told  of  farm  labor  had 
ejaculated,  "Dieu!  que  cela  va  etre  beau,  la  fete!" 
Finding  a  sympathetic  audience,  she  continued: 
"The  Virgin,  Madame,  there's  one  who  answers 
prayers.  It  is  she  who  brought  my  'man'  through 
Verdun  and  the  Somme.  Praise  be  to  her  and  the 
Good  God !  For  during  all  these  long  four  years  and 
more  I  never  lost  a  day  in  begging  her  grace.  I 
toiled  up — yes,  every  day — early  as  dawn.  I  walked 
up  that  hill  to  say  a  prayer,  in  rain,  tempest,  and  hot 
sun,  and  to  light  a  candle.  Marie  did  not  forget  my 
Henri,"  was  the  farmer-woman's  confession  as  I 
sat  beside  her  on  a  keg  of  nails,  close  to  the  quay, 
waiting  for  whatever  might  happen. 

The  peasant  who  had  chosen  to  rest  her  own  bones 
was  seated  above  me  on  a  sack  of  grain.  We  were 
both  idly  surveying  the  scene,  as  I  supposed.  My 
neighbor,  however,  was  awaiting  her  homme,  she 
conveyed  to  me. 

A  peasant,  presently,  ruddy  of  face,  jovial  of 
aspect,  with  smiling  blue  eyes,  and  a  straw  hat  tipped 
at  the  angle  that  proclaimed  the  wearer  had  not  re- 
nounced the  capture  of  our  sex,  advanced  toward  the 
stunted,  seated  figure. 

* '  Eh  ben !  la  vieille — t'es  prete  ?  Art  ready,  old  lady  ? 
The  climb  will  limber  up  your  old,  old  bones,"  and 
the  Henri  of  the  miraculous  intervention  gave  his 
spouse  a  rough  nudge,  winked  at  my  own  smile,  as 
he  added:  "Sitting  by  the  fire  makes  dead  flesh. 
Give  me  the  trenches  for  making  one  supple." 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

With  a  hoarse  laugh  Henri  put  his  arm  in  his  dull- 
faced  wife's  arm,  and  both  were  soon  lost  in  the 
crowd. 

The  day,  I  found,  was  to  be  replete  with  hap- 
penings. 

An  old  friend  suddently  turned  the  corner  of  La 
Lieutenance. 

He  stared,  grasped  his  beret,  to  pull  his  salute 
properly,  as  he  exclaimed,  with  a  smile  that  revealed 
his  neglect  of  dental  aid: 

"Tiens!    Madame  is  returned." 

As  by  right,  he  took  his  seat  beside  me  on  the 
empty  grain-bag. 

I  now  knew  my  fate.  I  was  in  for  a  delightful 
monologue.  As  happens  rarely  with  monologuists 
— those  captains  of  conversational  trusts — the  orgies 
of  talk  indulged  in  by  Pierre  Leonard  Paul  Maclou 
were  watched  for,  intrigued  for,  were  indeed  esteemed 
as  coveted  privileges  by  those  who  knew  what 
Maclou  could  tell  you,  once  he  was  at  his  best. 

Maclou  was  a  well-known  Honfleur  personality. 

His  twisted  face,  his  too-sudden  nose,  his  debonair 
air  of  finding  life  a  perpetual  entertainment,  whether 
on  sea  or  land — this  weather-stained,  keen-featured 
fisherman  had  sat  for  his  portrait  to  generations  of 
artists. 

Maclou  knew  his  value.  He  realized  to  the  full  the 
importance  of  embodying  the  looked-for  typical 
characteristics  of  a  sea-salt  and  a  Norman. 

My  friend  was  in  good  vein. 

He  was  giving  me  all  the  news  of  the  town.    He 

80 


THE  FfiTE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

dwelt  at  length  on  the  significance  and  the  impor- 
tance lent  to  the  festival  about  to  take  place  by  the 
adherence  of  his  brother  fishermen  to  the  proposed 
celebration.  This  consenting  attitude  had  not  been 
effected,  obviously,  without  some  twistings  of  con- 
scientious scruples.  New  World  fashions  in  unbelief 
had  played  their  part  in  a  town  where,  only  a  few 
centuries  ago,  Protestants  and  Catholics  were  cutting 
one  another's  throats  to  prove  whose  church  was  the 
more  Christian. 

Maclou  was  teaching  me  some  valuable  lessons. 
He  explained  at  great  length  how  it  was  possible  for 
a  man  to  present  two  fronts — well — to  the  Virgin, 
for  example.  He  instructed  me  in  the  difficult  art 
of  hedging.  With  graphic  lucidity  Maclou  demon- 
strated how  one  could  guard  against  losing  the  Lady's 
precious  guardianship,  and  yet  how  one  could  man- 
age to  keep  true  to  certain  forms  of  unbelief. 

"  £a  va  bien — Madame — it  goes  well  enough,  once 
one  is  safe  on  land,  to  sneer  and  scoff.  To  say: 
'What  can  a  wooden  statue  do  for  you — up  there  on 
the  hill?  The  Mother  of  Christ?  Who's  to  prove  it?' 
Well,  on  land,  you  see,  one's  feet  stand  on  firm 
ground,  on  ground  that  doesn't  slide  about.  There 
are  no  mountains  of  the  sea  to  slump  down  on  you, 
and  presently  you're  done  for.  One  can  be  as  brave 
then  as  any  poilu  on  a  good  road  or  in  a  Honfleur 
street. 

"But — nom  d'un  chien! — once  out  there" — and 
the  knotted,  purplish  hand  was  waved  toward  the 
Seine's  great  mouth,  vomiting  its  waters  into  the 

81 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

sea — "once  beyond  Mother  Seine,  out  in  the  open, 
in  that  swash,  with  lightning  and  thunder  for  a  sere- 
nade, on  a  night  when  she's  in  a  nasty  temper,  and 
one's  sense  of  safety  comes  back  in  a  jiffy.  One  runs 
to  port,  I  can  tell  you.  'A  la  merci  de  la  Sainte- 
Vierge!'  I  cry  louder  than  the  loudest.  Oh,  mais 
oui!  I'm  all  for  the  church  and  Marie  then.  It's 
on  land  one  can  afford  to  be  a  socialist  and  against 
the  priests." 

There  was  a  brief  pause.  My  friend  was  extri- 
cating a  huge  red-and-yellow  handkerchief  from  the 
vasty  depths  of  his  bulging  pockets.  Some  interesting 
and  even  valuable  seconds  were  lost;  Maclou  must 
give  due  time  for  the  trumpet-like  blast  every  Nor- 
man feels  is  essential  to  a  thorough  nasal  vacuum- 
cleaning  performance,  before  he  went  on;  for  go  on 
he  did.  He  felt  he  must  justify  his  own  spiritual 
contradictions  by  implicating  his  town. 

"Weil — you  see,  we  socialists  here  are  on  top  now. 
Even  the  priests  must  consult  us.  Why — here — 
no  longer  ago  than  a  month  when  this  anniversary 
was  being  planned,  Monsieur  le  Doyen  himself 
didn't  know  whether  he  could  count  on  us  or  not. 
Yes,  from  the  priests  and  the  mayor  down,  no  one 
knew  how  we  would  take  it — how  we  would  stand 
the  parading  of  La  Sainte-Marie  and  the  priests 
through  the  streets.  There  was  a  chance  we  might 
turn  ugly,  you  know;  that  we'd  refuse  outright  to 
lift  a  finger  to  help  decorate  the  town,  or  keep  our 
women  from  giving  a  sou  to  the  show.  It's  always 
the  women  who  turn  traitor  to  big  things  if  there's 

82 


THE  EfcTE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

a  priest  and  a  chance  to  show  themselves  in  a  pro- 
cession. 

"Ben — we  disappointed  the  socialists  up  in  Paris. 
We  were,  after  all,  good  citizens  of  Honfleur  first 
and  socialists  afterward.  There  is  our  answer." 
Pierre  twisted  his  thumb  outward — a  thumb  as 
gnarled  as  a  century-old  branch.  He  had  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  triumphal  arch  spanning  the  town's 
high  street. 

"That's  one  of  them.  There  are  many  others, 
as  you'll  see.  But  our  street  beats  all  the  others. 
Will  Madame  come  and  have  a  look?" 

Pierre's  gaze  now  was  like  that  of  a  child  begging 
a  grown-up  to  see  a  prized  belonging. 

La  rue  Gambetta  is,  and  has  been,  for  longer  cen- 
turies than  even  an  American  millionaire  can  satis- 
factorily trace  his  descent  from  a  follower  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  on  the  great  adventure  of  the  con- 
quest of  England — this  street  of  Gambetta  has  been 
the  home  of  sailors,  mariners,  and  fisherfolk  for  cen- 
turies and  centuries. 

From  the  latticed  windows,  naval  officers  in  re- 
treat, captains  and  mates  on  half-pay,  have  continued 
their  intimacy  with  the  sea.  Low  tide,  high  tide, 
each  and  every  signal  raised  on  ship  or  sloop  have 
been  as  eagerly  noted,  deemed  as  exciting  an  event 
as  was  a  love-token  in  youth. 

Out  from  that  street  sailors  and  mariners  have 
gone  since  and  before  France  was  wholly  France, 
to  Brazil,  to  the  Indies,  and  to  start  the  new  race 
of  men  that  have  glorified  their  parentage  as  Cana- 

83 


dians  in  our  own  war.  The  street  had  flung  its 
flags  and  its  tapestries,  had  erected  its  triumphal 
arches  for  dukes,  princes,  the  king's  ministers,  for 
Henry  IV,  and  Le  Roi  Soleil. 

The  arch  that  led  into  the  Sailors'  Street  was  as 
unique  and  original  in  design  as  a  futurist's  attempt 
to  torture  beauty  into  his  conception  of  truth.  The 
arch,  however,  had  the  advantage  of  uniting  both 
realism  and  beauty.  Imagine  fine,  brown  fish-nets 
draped  as  curtains;  and  for  curtain  sashes  new  life- 
preservers  wreathed  in  flowers.  Long  oars,  polished 
to  mirrory  brightness,  posed  upright,  as  might  pro- 
tective spears,  against  the  sides  of  the  arch;  and 
above,  as  further  decorative  adjuncts,  there  were  two 
huge  anchors,  painted  blue,  brilliant  with  golden  stars. 

Thus  wreathed  and  garlanded,  the  arch  led  the 
way  to  a  street  that  was  a  bower.  Where,  save  from 
centuries  of  taste-developed  instinct,  had  rude  hands 
learned  to  fashion  such  delicate,  such  magical  effects, 
from  costless  material?  Here  were  windows  framed 
in  beautifully  made  wreaths,  roses  and  fruits  geo- 
metrically set  therein  to  give  an  impression  of  such 
borders  as  the  great  artists  designed  for  their  costly 
tapestries.  The  wreaths  were  fashioned  out  of  pine 
boughs,  and  the  flowers  and  fruits  were  made  of 
paper. 

Maclou  was  now  busily  explaining  the  process  of 
producing  such  triumphant  effects.  We  were  stand- 
ing in  front  of  an  old  house  that  had  been  turned 
into  a  seeming  bower  of  bloom.  The  harmonious 
blending  of  colors  and  the  symmetrical  arrangements 

84 


THE  FfiTE  OF  THE  VlfcGIN 

of  garlands,  stiff  Louis  XV  bouquets  set  in  tall 
vases,  and  of  wreaths  and  flags,  proclaimed  a  rare 
touch  and  sense  of  design. 

"Joli — hein?  Yes.  That's  my  cousin's.  She's 
great  on  decorations.  There  she  is  now,  looking  out 
to  see  who  stops  to  applaud  her."  A  frowzy  head 
and  a  large  frame  leaned  across  the  garlanded  win- 
dow. The  woman  bowed.  I  was  addressing  an 
artist  conscious  of  her  talent. 

"You  have  produced  a  beautiful  effect,  Madame." 

"So  pleased  you  like  it — we  worked  hard,"  was 
the  throaty,  smiling  reply  as  the  disorderly  head 
nodded  acceptance  of  the  praise. * 

"We  were  up  till  midnight  cutting  out  those  paper 
absurdities,"  interpolated  Maclou,  pointing  to  the 
very  realistic  copies  of  wistaria.  Fluttering  in  the 
breeze  were  long  garlands  of  these  delicate,  graceful 
spirals.  Thus  decorated  the  street  Gambetta  re- 
sembled rather  an  open-air  ballroom  than  the  some- 
what squalid  abode  of  fisherfolk. 


II 

As  I  made  my  way,  later,  up  the  high  street, 
passing  under  innumerable  triumphal  arches,  under 
more  and  more  garlands  swung  across  the  narrow 
thoroughfares,  under  flags  so  thickly  set  that  house 
facades  disappeared  and  only  rose-garlanded  win- 
dows framed  and  trimmed  doorways  signaled  their 
residential  character,  I  found  all  Honfleur  repeating 
this  note  of  beauty. 

7  85 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Honfleur  had  been  turned  indeed  into  an  altar.  It 
was  abloom  with  fragrance;  it  was  aflame  with  color. 

I,  in  my  turn,  toiled  up  the  long  hill  of  the  Cote- 
de-Grace.  A  beautiful  arch,  green  as  the  trees  that 
had  contributed  their  quota  of  beauty  to  the  fete, 
this  was  the  stately  entrance  to  the  hill  slope.  On 
its  top,  on  the  wide  esplanade,  nature,  man,  and 
art  had  combined  to  produce  one  of  those  completely 
harmonious  settings  for  a  church  festival  which  only 
France,  I  think,  still  presents. 

A  grove  of  admirably  grouped  elms  made  a  thickly 
foliaged  background  for  the  whites  and  blues  of  tall 
Venetian  standards.  White  and  blue  were  also  the 
colors  of  the  pennants  floating  from  their  tops.  The 
hill  wore  the  Lady's  own  colors.  Wreaths  and  gar- 
lands, banners  and  the  fleur-de-lis  of  France,  as  well 
as  massed  tricolor  flags,  communicated  gay  notes 
of  brilliance  to  the  state  of  the  century-old  trees. 

Beyond  this  decorated  hilltop  one  could  look  forth 
on  an  outlook  so  vast  one  might  almost  hope  to 
see  the  shining  of  England's  white  cliffs.  Far  as 
the  eye  could  sweep,  toward  the  west  there  lay  at 
one's  feet,  in  the  foreground,  the  Seine's  wide  stretch, 
with  the  sea's  blues  beyond.  Havre's  smoking  chim- 
neys made  a  misty  breath,  as  though  the  city  had 
human  lungs.  Beyond  the  Sainte-Adresse  headland 
there  glittered  the  whitened  steel  of  the  vanishing 
sea,  flashing  as  it  was  lost  in  the  descending  cup  of 
heaven's  blue. 

Out  upon  the  quiet  air,  above  this  incomparable 
scene,  arose  the  music  of  old  bells,  chiming,  halting, 

86 


THE  FETE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

chiming  again  the  louder.  This  nearer  music  was 
echoed  by  all  the  bells  in  Honfleur  down  below  the 
hill,  ringing  their  loudest. 

All  was  stir,  bustle,  confusion  among  the  gathered 
thousands  awaiting  the  great  moment.  Thousands 
there  were  who  must  nurse  their  patience,  must 
stand  and  wait.  Few  indeed  were  the  privileged 
worshipers  who  could  pass  beyond  the  antique  porch 
of  the  Lady's  tiny  chapel. 

There  were  priests  close  to  the  doors  protecting 
her  Grace.  There  were  other  priests  working  like 
agitated  commanders,  striving  to  form  the  coming 
procession  into  some  semblance  of  order.  Young 
girls  in  the  whites  of  their  muslins — these  first  com- 
municants— must  be  shown  where  to  stand.  A  long 
line  of  boys,  bearing  charming  little  boats,  their 
parents'  offering  to  Marie,  proved  more  amenable 
to  discipline.  Les  Enfants  de  Marie,  hundreds  in 
number,  apparently  knew  their  place  and  part  in 
the  day's  hard  work. 

There  came  a  cry  louder  than  all  the  others. 
"Les  chanteuses  [the  singers] — where  are  they?  Why 
do  they  not  come  forward?  Here,  you;  you  must 
stand  here;  you  must  lead  the  others,"  was  the  com- 
mand of  a  struggling,  ardent-eyed,  authoritative 
young  priest,  with  a  face  one  might  have  counted 
on  seeing  at  the  head  of  a  regiment.  He  was  next 
apostrophizing  a  group  of  soldiers. 

"  Ah-h! — you — beau  poilu  over  there,  you  and  your 
copains,  be  ready,  will  you — hein?  to  help  carry  the 

Virgin,  when  the  sailors  have,  had  enough." 

87 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  beau  poilu  turned  a  pink  face  as  he  smiled  his 
assent.  The  soldiers  laughed  a  hoarse  yet  smothered 
laugh.  To  be  thus  singled  out,  to  be  stared  at  by 
hundreds  of  people,  was  an  ordeal  one  must  carry  off 
with  a  semi-scoffing  air.  All  the  same,  they  would 
help  carry  the  Virgin.  Monsieur  1'Abbe  was  all 
right.  They  knew  each  other  as  never  would  priest 
and  peasants'  sons  have  learned  the  secret  sources 
of  the  other's  powers,  had  they  not  laid  huddled 
together  in  the  mud  of  the  trenches,  or  had  they  not 
found  Monsieur  1'Abbe  there,  when  they  wakened  in 
the  sanitary  train,  to  brush  the  flies  away  and  give 
a  bandaged  hand  a  cigarette.  So,  of  course,  these 
poilus  would  carry  the  Virgin. 


in 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  press  one's  way  through  the 
congested  aisles  of  the  little  chapel.  Yet  through 
that  packed  mass  there  pushed  and  struggled  to  the 
altar  those  contrasting  figures  whose  commingling  is 
one  of  the  chief  elements  of  charm  we  Anglo-Saxons 
find  in  a  French  crowd. 

Soldiers  in  their  blues  or  khaki;  peasants  with  a 
coif  and  apron;  young  widows  trailing  their  crapes; 
fishermen  in  their  berets;  elderly  chatelaines  jingling 
massive  gold  watch-chains;  sturdy  citizens  of  Hon- 
fleur  looking  their  sedatest  in  top-hat  and  white 
tie;  farmers  in  the  enforced  respectability  of  a  wide- 
awake and  clean  shirt — all  these  were  to  gain  a 
place  before  the  altar,  to  mutter  their  "Ave  Maria," 


THE  F&TE  OP  THE  VIRGIN 

and  to  give  the  Latin  touch  of  the  picturesque  to 
a  Latin  festival. 

Impassive,  immobile,  serene,  the  golden-hued  Vir- 
gin looked  down  upon  her  worshipers.  On  this  her 
great  day  she  had  descended  from  her  shrine.  She 
had  been  placed  close  to  the  altar  rail,  on  a  broad 
platform  wreathed  in  roses. 

The  dim  lighting  in  the  choir  lent  a  mystic  gloom 
to  the  crowned  figure.  The  devotional  incense 
rising  from  the  hearts  of  her  lovers  communicated 
what  no  smoking  incense  had  power  to  do.  The 
Lady  of  Mercy  seemed  enveloped  in  an  electric 
atmosphere  of  devotional  ecstasy. 

The  Lady  had  her  Divine  Child  in  her  arms.  She 
wore  her  tall,  golden  crown,  jewel-studded.  From 
her  shoulders  there  hung  a  long  lace  mantle.  This 
womanly  garment  gave  an  astonishingly  lifelike,  a 
singularly  personal,  look  to  the  inanimate  outlines. 

A  young  soldier  who  had  distanced  his  group  to 
proffer  his  prayer  and  lay  his  bunch  of  flowers  at 
her  feet  was  but  continuing  the  long  procession  of 
those  who  had  knelt  at  Marie's  shrine. 

As  long  ago  as  the  eleventh  century,  Robert, 
Duke  of  Normandy,  William  the  Conqueror's  father, 
had  built  for  her  her  first  chapel.  This,  the  later 
chapel  of  the  sixteenth  century,  was  erected  by  a 
famous  duchesse — the  Duchesse  de  Montpensier. 
While  kings,  queens,  and  many  of  the  great  of  the 
earth  have  paid  her  their  homage,  above  all  others 
this  Lady  of  Mercy  loves  her  sailors  and  fisherfolk. 

Look  aloft,  and  you  perceive  dozens  of  boats,  some 

89 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

tall  and  narrow,  others  small,  and  some  so  exquisitely 
wrought  that  they  must  be  preserved  under  glass; 
others  equally  wonderful  in  structure,  suspended 
from  the  chapel  ceiling,  that  she  and  all  may  see 
them.  As  for  ex-votos,  behold  the  rows  upon  rows 
of  golden  hearts  which  form  a  crown  above  her  shrine; 
see  the  marble  tablets,  so  thick  upon  the  wall  that 
the  wall  disappears — whose  shining  letters  attest  to 
all  the  world  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  prayers 
she  has  listened  to  and  answered. 

And  so  from  this  all  but  unknown  hilltop,  unknown 
to  the  greater  world,  out  across  the  seas  to  the 
cathedral  at  New  York,  as  from  Justinian's  "Santa 
Sophia  at  Constantinople"  to  the  Kremlin  at  Moscow, 
from  the  glory  that  was  Rheims'  to  the  untouched 
splendor  of  Chartres,  behold  the  ever-continuing 
wonder-working  power  of  this  Lady  of  Mercy — 
proof  above  all  others  of  the  dynamic  force  that  lies 
in  the  secret  filters  of  love  and  faith. 


IV 

The  crowd  was  now  showing  signs  of  restive  im- 
patience. Priests,  acolytes,  and  the  Suisse,  the  latter 
gorgeous  in  his  scarlet  and  gold  epaulet,  were 
passing  in  and  out  of  the  vestry  door.  The  sacristy, 
it  appeared,  was  found  to  be  overcrowded.  Some 
elderly  priests,  beyond  the  teasing  age  of  ecclesi- 
astical vanity,  had  brought  their  surplices  into  the 
choir.  With  a  touching  simplicity  the  white,  pleated 
garments  were  slipped  over  head  and  shoulders. 

90 


THE  FETE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

No  one  among  the  congregation  appeared  to  con- 
sider this  making  of  a  priestly  toilet  in  public 
derogatory  to  priestly  dignity.  "Vous  voyez,  tout 
ce  passe  en  famille  chez  nous — we  are  all  en  famille 
here,"  whispered  my  friend  and  neighbor,  with  an 
indulgent  smile. 

The  intimacy  between  priest  and  the  devout  was 
apparently  not  limited  to  earthly  relations.  "Is 
Monseigneur  here — really  here?  I  heard  he  was 
not  coming,"  a  lady  at  my  left  queried,  her  anxious 
brow  furrowed  with  inquiring  wrinkles.  She  had 
been  briskly  praying,  rosary  in  hand,  but  a  moment 
before.  She  had  temporarily  stopped  intercourse 
with  Heaven  to  ask  her  question.  She  seemed  en- 
tirely assured  of  the  Deity's  courtesy  in  awaiting 
her  return  to  her  devotional  exercises.  Since  God 
is  always  there  .  .  . 


Now  the  great  moment  had  come.  The  Virgin 
and  Child  were  lifted  with  amazing  ease  by  her  sailor 
bearers.  The  golden  figure  rose  surprisingly  tall 
above  its  flower-decked  platform. 

On  the  parvis,  out  upon  the  wide  expanse  of  the 
hilltop,  thousands  were  grouped,  awaiting  this  the 
great  moment — for  the  culminating  point  of  the 
festival  was  this  descent  of  the  Virgin  from  her 
shrine  and  her  coming  out  into  the  open  day. 

In  the  clear  daylight  the  Virgin,  borne  by  her 
sailor  lovers,  moved  along  her  heights  to  the  sea 
she  was  to  bless.  She  passed  beneath  wreathed 

91 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

standards  that  floated  her  blues.  She  was  made  to 
bend  her  head  as  she  swept  her  golden  crown  under 
triumphal  arches.  The  pale  sunlight  touched,  with 
almost  mystic  awe,  the  delicate  outlines  of  a  face 
that  moved  to  tears  many  among  the  kneeling 
throngs. 

As  the  Virgin  made  her  entrance  upon  the  wide 
scene,  before  her  waiting  thousands  of  worshipers, 
there  was  an  instant  of  hushed  excitement.  A  sen- 
sible vibration  of  emotional  intensity  seemed  to  stir 
and  thrill  the  multitude.  One  might  have  thought 
the  statue  a  living  presence.  Many  of  her  devotees 
were  on  their  knees;  tears  were  falling  from  many  an 
eye,  and  none  was  ashamed. 

"When  I  see  her  like  that,  before  us,  under  the 
open  sky — with  her  Child  on  her  arm,  extending 
His  little  hands — as  though  to  bless  us,  I  am  con- 
vulsed with  sobs — my  emotions  suffocate  me.  I 
am  glad  to  weep,"  was  the  touching  confession  of  a 
woman  on  her  knees,  close  beside  me. 

There  were  also  deeper,  more  poignant  emotions 
stirring  the  hearts  of  those  less  devout.  The  flags 
that  married  their  reds,  white,  and  blues  to  the  blue 
and  white  colors  of  the  Virgin  symbolized  the  glory 
of  Victory.  Not  one  among  all  these  thousands  of 
worshipers  or  unbelievers  but  was  thrilled  with  the 
exultant  consciousness  of  a  France  freed,  of  a  France 
at  peace. 

A  year  ago,  almost  to  the  very  day,  those  of  us 
living  along  this  coast  had  heard  the  dread  booming 
of  the  great  guns  at  the  front.  Whether  we  ate, 

92 


THE  FfiTE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

or  wakened,  or  walked,  or  sat,  our  hearts  were  leaden. 
Would  the  Germans  advance  beyond  Montdidier? 
Would  Amiens  be  taken?  Were  that  city  to  fall, 
then  Rouen  and  all  this  Norman  coast  would  fall 
easy  victims  to  German  brutality. 

Just  a  year  ago  the  long-distance  gun  was  striving 
to  paralyze  Parisian  nerves  by  day,  and  by  night 
to  murder  men,  women,  and  children.  Were  we 
indeed  to  fall  under  German  tyranny?  We  felt  the 
very  clutch  of  that  horror-striking  grasp  at  our 
throats.  Only  those  who  have  lived  through  those 
fearsome  months  may  know  what  the  Allies'  victory 
can  mean. 

Cymbals,  therefore,  clash  your  loudest!  Drums, 
beat  as  never  before!  Through  yonder  brass- voiced 
trumpets  let  the  breath  pass  as  never  before  have 
human  lips  chorused  triumphant  song! 

For  it  is  not  alone  the  Virgin  who  walks  her  way 
to  the  sound  of  praise  and  prayer. 

It  is  our  Winged  Victory,  the  Invisible  Presence, 
who  is  beating  the  very  air  with  her  glad  wings, 
paeans  rising  exultant,  like  mounting  incense  from 
an  antique  altar. 

VI 

In  the  clear  daylight,  under  the  domed  trees,  the 
Virgin  was  being  carried  along,  followed  by  the  vast 
throng  of  her  adorers,  toward  the  sea. 

All  eyes  were  centered  on  the  tall,  commanding 
figure  of  the  bishop.  He  was  directing  the  pro- 
cession toward  the  heights  overlooking  the  waters, 

93 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

He  was  about  to  bless  the  sea. 

As  the  sailors  turned  to  bring  the  statue  in  line 
with  the  ridge  of  the  cliff,  a  ringing  command  smote 
the  ear: 

"Face  au  port!" 

The  bishop's  face  was  suddenly  irradiate.  His 
ringed  hand,  lifted  heavenward,  was  visibly  trem- 
bling. And  on  the  deeply  lined  face  there  came  a  smile, 
as  though  the  bishop  were  saluting  a  friend.  The 
bishop  was  indeed  saluting  one  he  knew  well — he 
and  the  sea  were  old  friends;  he  was  himself  a  fisher- 
man's son.  And  those  rough-visaged  sailors,  close 
to  his  lordship,  flashed  back  from  their  rigid  pose, 
as  bearers  of  their  Virgin,  the  answering  smile  of 
men  who  knew  that  the  bishop — in  giving  his  com- 
mand in  French  and  in  the  seamen's  tongue — was 
claiming  the  comradeship  in  which  he  took,  for  all 
his  grandeur,  such  deep  and  loving  pride. 

The  Benediction,  voiced  in  the  Church's  tongue, 
fell  upon  the  momentary,  hushed  silence  like  an 
echo  of  far-away  Roman  days,  when  all  the  world 
spoke  the  Latin  which  now  only  priests  and  savants 
use. 


Down  the  steep  hill  the  mile-long  procession  pres- 
ently wended  its  way.  The  Virgin  and  her  cortege 
were  to  make  a  tour  of  the  town. 

Honfleur  presents  a  rare,  and  now  a  too  rapidly 
vanishing,  setting  for  these  open-air  Catholic  festi- 

94 


THE  FfiTE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

vals.  The  wandering  streets,  the  timbered,  worn-faced 
houses,  the  slate-covered  fagades  framing  the  inner 
dock,  the  Gothic  spires  and  Renaissance  towers  of 
its  churches,  and  the  great  quays  lined  with  shipping 
and  the  fishing-fleet — such  a  town  set  in  between 
verdant  hills  and  lovely  valleys — where  save  in 
France  can  one  discover  as  harmonious  an  Old 
World  background? 

Against  such  effective  outlines  and  faded  colors 
there  swept,  slow  and  measured  of  step,  all  the  varied 
processional  splendor. 

The  antique  costume  of  the  Suisse,  its  scarlets 
and  gold,  were  in  amazing  relief  against  the  pale, 
pink  bricks  and  the  faded  cement  of  La  Lieutenance. 
The  blues  and  whites  of  the  choristers;  the  stately 
bishop  in  his  purples  and  costly  lace;  the  browns  of 
the  dark-robed  Assumptionist  Sisters;  the  creamy 
snows  of  a  Dominican's  habit;  and  the  delicate 
muslins  of  the  girlish  first  communicants — all  these 
contrasting  notes  made  an  incomparably  rare  blend- 
ing with  the  antique  setting  of  Honfleur. 


vn 

It  was,  however,  at  night,  when  the  Lady  was  car- 
ried back  to  her  own  shrine  and  chapel,  that  the 
climax  of  the  day's  splendor  was  attained. 

Up  the  long  hill,  it  was  now  les  beaux  poilus  who 
were  her  honored  bearers.  Choir-boys,  priests,  Mon- 
seigneur  himself,  toiled  up  the  steep  ascent  to  see 
her  fitly  enshrined.  Behind  the  cortege  the  brown- 

05 


TIP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

and-black-habited  nuns — all  now  whiter  of  face — 
and  the  great  army  of  the  Lady's  adorers — sailors, 
fishermen,  gentlefolk,  townspeople,  fishfolk — thou- 
sands and  thousands  were  filling  the  roadway. 

The  brilliant  summer  day  had  paled.  Twilight 
was  closing  its  violet  and  amber-tinted  windows. 
Faint  stars  were  pricking  the  purplish  skies  to  add 
celestial  lighting  to  the  lights  that  were  now  turning 
each  human  face — all  these  thousands  of  human 
shapes — into  a  mystic,  etherealized,  an  all  but 
transfigured  host. 

The  long  day's  emotional  excitement  had  intensi- 
fied the  pietistic  fervor.  Hymns  were  voiced  with 
deeper  feeling,  the  notes  of  many  more  male  voices 
were  communicating  a  richer  depth  of  tone.  The 
night  air  rang  with  "Marie,  ayez  pitie  de  moi." 
There  was  exaltation  in  the  long  rows  of  faces. 
Eyes  were  preternaturally  bright.  There  were  spots 
of  heightened  color  on  elderly  cheeks,  and  though 
steps  sometimes  faltered,  all  moved  as  though 
worked  by  some  inward,  emotional  volition. 

Every  worshiper  carried  his  or  her  candle.  The 
yellow,  twinkling  lights  lent  a  strange  and  unearthly 
glamour  to  the  great  spectacle.  The  nearer  faces  and 
forms  that  were  thus  lighted,  as  they  passed,  were 
aglow  with  sudden  brilliance,  the  features  were  ac- 
centuated, and  the  eyes  were  of  an  amazing  softness. 

Farther  down  the  hill  the  yellow  candle-lights 
were  growing  paler  as  the  mounting  shapes  them- 
selves, in  the  faintly  illumined  distance,  were  lost 
in  the  blue  of  the  night. 


THE  FETE  OF  THE  VIRGIN 

And  before  the  parvis  of  her  chapel  the  Virgin 
was  held  aloft  for  a  last  survey. 

A  sudden  blaze  lit  up  the  crowded  hilltop.  The 
nearer  woods  were  a  scarlet  grove,  aflame.  A  blue 
world  presently  succeeded  to  the  deeper  reds;  and 
then  violet  tree-trunks  and  tree-branches  melted  into 
the  blacks  of  the  night. 

The  sea  would  not  be  outdone.  A  fiery  fountain, 
star-gemmed,  flashed  skyward  to  fall  in  sparklets 
over  the  dusky  waters.  Rockets  sent  their  blaze 
into  the  arches  of  the  night,  bidding  the  stars  to 
pale  before  their  startling  blues  and  flaming  yellows. 
Beyond,  as  though  in  sympathetic  answer  to  this 
last  salute,  Havre's  harbor  lights  stabbed  the  night 
with  their  own  white  and  crimson  darts. 

And  all  the  air  was  full  of  song. 

It  was  to  the  voices  of  these  singing  thousands, 
to  ringing  chimes,  to  a  transformed  earth,  sky,  and 
sea,  that  the  Lady  was  laid  to  rest  in  her  shrine. 

Gods  die,  but  their  rites  survive.  Is  it  only  to  Latin 
countries  the  great  festivals  of  Delos,  of  Athens,  of 
Delphi,  have  banded  down  across  the  dead  centuries 
this  antique  sense  of  grace,  of  a  belief  in  the  joyous 
marriage  of  color,  beauty,  gaiety,  song,  and  prayer, 
in  the  worship  of  God? 

To  this  all  but  unknown  people  of  Honfleur  has 
been  passed  the  torch  of  that  vivifying  flame  that 
lights  the  altar  of  beauty  and  thus  incites  to  re- 
ligious emotivity.  Honfleur  still  lives  brilliantly 
through  her  festal  power,  as  once  she  lived  trium- 
phantly by  virtue  of  her  importance, 

97 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   STORY   OF   HONFLEUR 


the  day  following  the  fete  I  was  to  find  that 
the  story  of  this  little  town  of  Honfleur  one 
may  liken  to  the  illumined  pages  of  an  old  missal; 
like  certain  saints,  she  also  has  passed  through 
persecution  and  martyrdom.  There  are  pages  of 
her  history  that  should  be  recorded  in  letters  of  gold, 
for  in  her  great  days  Honfleur  played  a  brilliant  part 
in  the  progressive  glories  of  France. 

For  Americans  and  English  alike  there  is  a  com- 
memorative tablet  affixed  to  the  walls  of  the  pict- 
uresque Lieutenance  which  arrests  the  eye: 

Le  3  Septembre,  1899,  a  la  Memoire  de  Samuel  de  Champlain,  la 
Societ6  du  Vieux  Honfleur  a  consacrg  ce  souvenir  avec  des  marins 
et  des  equipages  du  Port  de  Honfleur. 

II  explora  I'Arcadie  et  le  Canada  de  1603  a  1607;  parti  du  meme 
port  en  1608  ilfonda  la  ville  de  Quebec.  Embarquements  de  Cham- 
plain  a  Honfleur:  Avril  1603—13  Ami  1608 — 18  Avril  1610 — 
Avril  1615— Avril  1617— Mai  J620.1 


1  On  the  3d  of  September,  1899,  the  Societe  du  Vieux  Honfleur  con- 
secrated to  the  memory  of  Samuel  de  Champlain  this  tablet,  together 
with  the  sailors  and  crews  of  the  port  of  Honfleur. 

He  explored  Arcadia  and  Canada  from  1603  to  1607;  departing  from 
the  same  port,  he  founded,  in  1608,  the  city  of  Quebec.  The  sailings  of 
de  Champlain  from  Honfleur  were:  April,  1603 — April  13,  1608 — April 
18,  1610— April,  1615— April,  1617— May,  1620. 

98 


THE  STORY  OF  HONFLEUR 

The  happy  chance  of  being  able  to  present  the 
milieu  of  so  memorable  a  historical  event  as  this 
setting  forth  of  a  great  adventurer  is  not  often  given 
to  a  writer.  The  old  houses  and  quays  of  Honfleur 
seem  to  have  preserved  their  seventeenth-century 
setting  with  felicitous  sense  of  their  importance. 

Those  slanting,  narrow,  slate-faced  houses  crowd- 
ing the  inner  basin — just  beyond  La  Lieutenance — 
on  these  now  ancient  dwellings  Champlain  must  have 
looked  his  last  as  he  made  each  of  his  seven  departures 
for  the  wilderness.  Yonder  is  the  Gothic  church, 
now  the  Honfleur  Museum,  where  he  may  have  knelt 
in  prayer;  the  dim  courts  and  evil-smelling  alleys 
are  still  here,  in  various  parts  of  the  town,  whence 
went  forth  the  crews  he  recruited  for  his  adventurous 
journeys. 

The  Honfleur  of  that  now  far-away  seventeenth 
century  was  seized  as  with  an  intoxicating  madness 
to  depart  for  those  beckoning  lands  beyond  the  seas. 
"  Departs  pour  le  Canada  "  are  still  to  be  read  in  every 
old  will  in  Honfleur  and  its  adjacent  parishes. 

Fleets,  vessels,  ships  of  all  sorts  set  sail  for  this 
"New  France."  In  that  feverish  time  the  nights 
as  well  as  the  days  of  every  citizen  of  Honfleur  were 
colored  with  flashing  hopes  oftcoming  wealth;  gold  and 
silver  were  to  flow,  a  Pactolian  stream  straight  from 
the  mines  in  Canada  into  the  open  pockets  of  these 
money-loving  Normans. 

As  the  wet  sands  reflect  at  sunset  the  brilliant 
sunset  hues,  every  adventurous  Norman,  before  his 
mental  eye,  saw  reflected  the  gorgeous,  luminous 

09 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

clouds  of  fairy  fortunes.  It  was  as  easy  to  secure  a 
crew  for  Canada  as  a  century  before  it  had  been  to 
recruit  an  army  for  the  pillaging  of  churches  in  the 
war  against  Protestants. 

The  very  names  of  the  ships  that  set  their  sails 
were  an  open  avowal  of  the  hopes  and  fluttering 
dreams  of  the  avarice-minded  men  that  went  to 
take  ship  for  the  New  World:  Don-de-Dieu,  L'Espe- 
rance,  Bon-Espoir,  departed  for  the  coast  of  Arcadia, 
with  contracts  from  Henri  IV  for  "exclusive  priv- 
ileges of  traffic,  provided  they  founded  an  establish- 
ment." The  first  attempt  to  establish  this  coveted 
right  was,  as  we  all  know,  at  Tadoussac  on  the 
Sagouny. 

If  crews  were  as  easily  recruited  as  money  was 
found  for  the  arming  and  equipping  of  the  ships,  the 
one  great  need  of  rib-born  man  that  pitying  Deity 
accorded  to  Adam  in  creating  the  rib-born  Eve — 
this  need  seems,  for  the  first  few  years  of  this  emi- 
gration to  "the  land  of  savages,"  to  have  been  for- 
gotten. No  French  women  seem  minded  to  turn 
explorers. 

Colbert,  the  great  Minister  under  Louis  XIV,  who 
thought  of  everything,  devised  a  clever  scheme  for 
peopling  this  "New  France." 

He  wrote  to  the  Archbishop  of  Rouen:  "As  they 
[young  girls]  may  be  found  in  the  suburbs  of  Rouen, 
I  believe  you  will  consider  it  worth  your  while  to 
allow  me  to  implore  you  to  use  your  authority  and 
the  credit  you  have  with  the  cures  of  twenty  or  thirty 
of  these  parishes,  to  see  if  they  can  find  in  each,  one 

100 


THE  STORY  OF  HONFLEUR 

or  two  young  girls  disposed,  voluntarily,  to  go  to 
Canada  to  be  married." 

Here  was  an  appeal  as  irresistible  to  the  priest 
as  to  the  Norman  maiden.  Every  priest  believes  in 
the  holy  cause  of  match-making.  And  as  for  the 
unwedded  girls,  behold  they  flocked  from  every 
town  and  hamlet.  The  only  qualifications  being  a 
good  reputation,  sound  health,  and  powers  of  en- 
durance— dozens  of  Norman  girls  could  prove  them- 
selves fit  for  acceptance. 

In  outlining  this,  his  ingenious  scheme,  Colbert 
eliminated  Parisians.  "They  would  be  too  delicate 
for  household  work  and  the  culture  of  the  soil," 
he  wrote,  somewhat  disdainfully. 

Eighty -two  marriageable  girls  presently  took  ship 
at  Honfleur.  The  cargo,  however,  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  trained  workmen,  their  tools  and  in- 
struments, as  well  as  two  superb  Normandy  stallions, 
were  to  prove  serious  rivals  to  the  blooming,  robust 
Norman  maidens. 

On  landing  at  Quebec,  the  eighty-two  marriage- 
able girls,  all  aflame  with  curiosity  to  see  what  man- 
ner of  men  were  to  be  these  their  future  husbands, 
trembling  with  impatience  or  fear,  a-quiver  with  ex- 
pectancy, were  met  by  scarce  a  glance  of  interest. 
The  little  landing-dock  was  indeed  crowded  with 
hardy  pioneers  and  with  fierce,  feather-crowned 
savages.  But  the  cheers  and  rapturous  enthusiasm 
were  not  for  the  paling  maidens,  but  were  reserved 
for  the  trained  workmen,  for  their  tools,  and  above 

all  others  for  the  two  Normandy  stallions. 
8  101 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

One  tries  to  picture  the  feelings  ana  the  faces  of 
those  marriageable  maidens!  Was  it,  forsooth,  for 
this,  to  see  the  points  of  a  horse  appreciated,  that 
they  had  left  family,  the  home  village,  which,  how- 
ever poor  in  suitors  and  prospects,  was  still  suffi- 
ciently civilized  to  put  women  at  least  on  a  par  with 
horses?  Imagine  the  heartburnings  of  those  eighty- 
two  marriageable  girls!  What  collective  despair! 
What  a  sickening  sense  of  failure,  what  a  hurt  to 
the  vanity  that,  against  all  the  agonies  of  the  long 
and  painful  sea  voyage,  had  upheld  their  little  bal- 
loon of  confident  hopes! 

Happily,  the  poets  will  have  it,  that  man,  since 
Adam,  invariably  has  proved  his  atavistic  instinct 
to  return  to  his  first  love.  According  to  Genesis, 
before  biblical  critics  wrecked  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Adam  loved  Eve  before  ever  he  did  the  prehistoric 
horse.  This  may  be  taken  for  granted. 

Those  Norman  Canadians  were  not  only  true  sons 
of  Adam,  but  also  still  true  Normans.  Their  trading 
instinct  must  quickly  have  leaped  to  note  the  plain, 
staring  fact,  that  whereas  there  were  only  two  stal- 
lions, there  were  eighty-two  girls  waiting  for  hus- 
bands. Eighty  bachelors,  therefore,  could  afford 
to  turn  indifferent  eyes  on  the  stallions,  since  only 
two  owners  could  possess  them. 

One  evokes  the  gay  scene  of  the  choosing,  of  the 
tucking  of  a  smiling  maiden  under  the  masculine 
arm.  And  off  for  the  rude  hut  in  the  wilderness! 

All  hail!  I  say,  to  those  courageous  Norman  girls 
whose  glorious  destiny  it  was  to  be  the  first  among 

102 


THE  STORY  OF  IIONFLEUR 

European  women  to  pass  on  the  torch  of  bravery, 
handed  down  from  their  Norse  ancestors  to  their 
Canadian  descendants.  It  has  been  a  torch  upheld 
with  such  steadfast,  heroic  hands  as  to  make,  in 
our  recent  war,  the  very  name  of  Canadian  the 
synonym  for  valor. 

Monsieur  Sorel1  states: 

This  infusion  of  French  blood,  young  and  valiant,  explains 
the  extraordinary  development  of  our  race  in  Canada,  the 
fidelity  of  this  race  to  the  language,  to  the  religion,  to  the  tra- 
ditions of  its  provincial  origin.  These  women  brought  with 
them  that  which  was  most  solid  in  France — the  hearthstone — 
whose  flame  does  not  die.  Justice  has  not  been  done,  in  these 
particulars,  to  the  part  that  is  due  these  Frenchwomen. 

II 

To  every  American  and  Englishman,  the  names  of 
those  who  followed  Champlain  into  the  rendez-vous 
des  sauvages  are  as  household  words.  There  was 
Dupont  who  made  more  than  twenty  voyages  to  the 
Terre  Neuve,  starting  from  these  Honfleur  docks. 
There  were  Hamelin,  Chaudet,  La  Salle,  and  Chau- 
vin,  the  latter  being  among  the  few  whose  golden 
dreams  came  true. 

There  were  also  those  great  men,  great  as  organ- 
izers, intrepid  as  travelers  and  pioneers,  whose  reign 
of  equity  and  mercy  is  still  a  legend  among  the 
Indian  tribes,  while  Christianized  America  has  all 
but  forgotten  what  it  owes  to  their  Order — to  these 
repeated  journeyings  of  the  Brethren  des  Re'collets. 

As  there  is  a  little  of  everything  in  Normandy, 

1  Sorel,  Pages  Normandea. 

103 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

so  in  Honfleur  there  are  recording  pages  of  every 
period  in  French  history. 

A  famous  French  historian  has  said  delightfully 
of  a  bit  of  furniture  in  his  Honfleur  house:  "There  is 
a  vitrine  in  a  certain  provincial  drawing-room  where 
nothing  in  it  has  been  changed  for  years.  When  we 
were  children  we  were  told  not  to  touch  anything, 
'these  things  are  bibelots.'  Later,  we  said  to  our 
grandchildren,  'Don't  break  them,  they  are 
souvenirs ! ' ' 

Honfleur  may  be  likened  to  this  French  vitrine. 
It  is  crowded  with  souvenirs. 

You  may  walk  to  the  Place  Thiers  or  round  the 
rare  old  architectural  "souvenir"  of  the  Lieute- 
nance  and  reconstruct  the  ancient  walls  and  fortifi- 
cations which  the  growing  town  erected  to  defend 
itself  in  1204.  During  the  Hundred  Years'  War 
Honfleur  was  sacked  by  the  English  king,  Edward 
III,  and  our  own  war  has  taught  us  objective  les- 
sons in  the  fine  point  to  which  the  art  of  pillaging 
may  be  carried. 

Those  to  whom  command  of  the  sea  means  the 
corner-stone  of  all  territorial  conquest  can  revel  in 
the  accounts  of  a  certain  fleet  that  put  out  from  the 
Honfleur  docks,  this  particular  expedition  of  1451 
being  that  of  Norman  nobles  wearied  of  English 
oppression. 

Honfleur  navigators  later  rounded  the  Cape,  and 
others  knew  Brazil  and  discovered  Newfoundland 
as  early  as  1505.  Neither  was  India  unknown  to 
these  maitres  experts  de  la  mer. 

104 


THE  STORY  OF  IIONFLEUR 

The  wars  of  religion  and  that  political  war  of 
"the  pouters" — La  Fronde — between  them  all  but 
ruined  Honfleur.  The  Due  d'Aumale,  heading  the 
Catholics,  chased  the  Protestants  up  to  the  very 
tower  of  the  charming  old  church  of  Saint-Leonard, 
which  can  still  be  seen  as  it  was  then. 

The  frieze  crowning  the  tower,  with  its  bagpipes 
and  flutes,  a  curious  decorative  ornamentation,  would 
seem  to  symbolize  the  joys  of  life  and  of  heavenly 
recompense.  Yet  this  tower  was  the  last  refuge  of 
the  Protestants  of  whom  Honfleur  was  the  last 
Norman  Protestant  camp.  The  besieged  fought 
valiantly,  rushing  to  the  tower  only  as  a  last  des- 
perate venture. 

Saint-Leonard  still  stands  at  the  very  portal  to  wel- 
come you.  Two  little  captives  whose  chains  arrest 
the  eye  tell  you  the  saint's  history;  for  this  saintly 
man  held  captivity  in  horror,  to  the  degree  that  he 
wooed  it  for  himself  to  free  others.  He  went  to 
Africa;  bought  off,  when  in  funds,  the  galley-slaves; 
freed  one;  and  became  his  substitute  when  the  purse 
was  empty. 

Thus  does  the  scroll  of  history  unroll  itself  here 
in  this  ancient  Norman  town.  From  the  far-away 
days  when  that  master  statesman  Richelieu  requi- 
sitioned the  Honfleur  fleet  to  begin  the  siege  of  New 
Rochelle,  we  follow  successively  the  Bourbon  kings 
and  their  Ministers  planning  new  docks  and  granting 
the  town  new  privileges,  up  to  the  electrifying  visit 
of  Napoleon  I,  after  the  treaty  of  Amiens. 

Napoleon,  like  Colbert,  also  thought  of  every- 

105 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

thing.  He  could  spare  time  to  plan  new  ship- 
building docks,  in  a  town  so  unknown  nowadays  to 
most  tourists  its  very  name  recalls  not  a  single 
stirring  episode  of  French  history. 

Yet,  turn  the  pages  of  French  history  and  you  will 
find  nearly  every  great  minister,  general,  king,  or 
emperor,  from  Duquesne  and  Colbert,  from  Louis 
XIV  to  Napoleon,  come  to  Honfleur  on  this  business 
of  enlarging  docks,  or  of  granting  privileges,  or  of 
ordering  the  creation  of  huge  magazines  for  the 
drying  of  salt  to  preserve  fish. 

In  one  of  your  tours  through  this  interesting  little 
town  you  will  seek  the  museum.  It  is  filled  with 
relics  of  old  Honfleur.  In  a  street  reminiscent  of 
the  walled  port,  to  the  right  of  the  Gothic  church, 
the  latter  now  utilized  as  a  museum,  you  will  see, 
among  beautiful  brocades,  postilion's  boots  of  enor- 
mous size  and  weight,  costumes  with  the  delicate 
embroideries  of  the  Bourbon  periods,  quaint  old 
looms,  and  a  remarkably  realistic  reproduction  of  a 
shop  of  "ye  olden  time."  There  are  two  objects 
which  will  reveal  one  of  the  blacker  pages  of  Hon- 
fleur's  history. 

A  certain  reduced  copy  of  an  eighteenth -century 
ship  will  be  pointed  out  as  "a  slave-ship."  And 
some  exceedingly  well-woven  cottons,  pasted  into  a 
large  book,  will  be  shown  "as  the  cottons  with  which 
Honfleur  traders  bought  niggers." 

These  Rouen  cottons  were  indeed  temptingly 
offered  in  exchange  for  a  growing  negro  lad  or 
child,  or  for  a  husband  whose  devotion  to  his 

106 


THE  STORY  OF  HONFLEUR 

dusky  wife  would  go  to  the  lengths  of  selling 
himself  into  bondage  to  bedeck  a  wife  in  foreign- 
woven  splendor. 

Slave-traders,  however,  were  not  always  restricted 
to  commercial  dealings  in  capturing  their  "load." 
All  the  horrors,  the  brutality,  and  the  terrors  which 
the  innocent  and  ignorant  black  race  were  made  to 
suffer,  during  the  disgraceful  slave-trading  days, 
were  endured  by  those  captured  and  sold  by  Honfleur 
captains  and  traders. 

One  incident,  in  the  disgraceful  history  of  this  in- 
human traffic,  lightens  the  fancy  to  dwell  upon. 
In  one  of  the  cargoes  from  the  African  coast  a  young 
prince,  from  Gambia,  was  found  to  have  been  inad- 
vertently captured.  The  prince  had  been  indis- 
creetly wandering  about  the  shores  of  his  uncle's 
kingdom.  Since  there  was  nothing  either  in  the 
youthful  heir's  appearance,  color,  or  demeanor  to 
distinguish  him  in  the  eyes  of  traders  bent  on 
seizing  any  booty  of  the  right  complexion,  the  prince 
was  brutally  attacked,  hustled  on  board  the  slave- 
ship,  and  flung  into  the  hold. 

Some  of  his  fellow-captives  recognized  their  king's 
nephew.  Here  was  a  prize  too  rich  to  be  left  at 
Port  Royal,  along  with  other  job  lots.  The  prince 
was  taken  to  Honfleur,  where  for  some  months  his 
black  face  and  his  royal  person,  clothed  in  the  Hon- 
fleur cotton  bluejeans,  coat,  vest,  and  trousers,  were 
the  daily  joy  of  the  wharves  and  quays.  He  was 
finally  sent  back  to  his  kingly  uncle,  who  returned 
thanks  to  the  French  authorities  for  the  care  taken 

107 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  the  young  prince,  "whose  health  was  of  the  most 
flourishing" ! 


Will  you  have  a  gayer  picture  of  Honfleur  in  those 
its  greater  days? 

These  were  days  when  the  arrivals  of  the  lumbering 
coaches  from  Rouen  or  from  Caen  was  an  event; 
when  also  to  cross  over  to  Havre  there  was  at  your 
pleasure  a  sailboat,  in  which  you  took  passage  at 
the  risk  of  tempestuous  weather  or  of  being  becalmed. 

The  Honfleur  of  those  earlier  days  was  gayer, 
more  brilliant  in  color,  and  lighter  of  heart  than 
now.  Song  and  dance  were  as  common  to  the  Nor- 
mandy peasant,  on  fete-days  and  at  weddings,  as 
nowadays  their  less  lively  descendants  go  to  Trou- 
ville  and  Deauville  to  watch  others  dance  the  "fox- 
trot" and  "jazz."  Those  earlier  Normans  had  a 
better  sense  of  how  feet  should  move  to  quicken 
brain  and  incite  to  true  merriment. 

Did  a  ship  come  in  from  the  Indies  or  Brazil  or 
Newfoundland,  behold!  the  quays  were  crowded. 
All  Honfleur  was  en  fete.  What  a  moving,  entranc- 
ing picture  the  staring  eyes  of  crews,  mates,  and 
captains  beheld  as  their  ship  came  to  port! 

There  were  hundreds  of  Norman  maidens  flutter- 
ing about,  waving  hands  and  handkerchiefs!  Tall, 
lacy  Normandy  caps  framed  faces  aglow  with  youth 
and  health;  striped  skirts  were  revealers  of  the  red 
or  yellow  stockings  and  bright  shoe  buckles.  The 

108 


THE  STORY  OF  HONFLEUR 

bodices,  laced  across  gauze-covered  bosoms,  made 
eyes  glisten  and  warm.  "Twenty  love-conceited 
knots"  were  tied  in  honor  of  the  day. 

The  commercial  traveler  and  the  leveling  process 
of  democratic  principles  have  decreed  that  the 
peasant,  the  villager,  the  rentier,  the  bourgeois,  and 
the  rich  must  be  garbed  as  nearly  alike  as  purse  and 
taste  permit. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  tidal  boat  from  Havre,  a 
Honfleur  crowd  will  always  be  found  awaiting  the 
passengers,  and  while  you  will  see  hands  still  waved 
to  returning  travelers,  it  will  be  only  the  same  more 
or  less  dun-colored  crowd  one  sees  from  the  docks  of 
New  York  to  these  ports  of  France.  Here  at  Hon- 
fleur, at  least,  fishwives,  fishermen,  sailors,  negro 
stokers,  and  invariably  one  old  Norman,  in  an  old- 
time  cap,  give  to  those  leaning  over  the  top-wall 
color  and  race  variety. 


CHAPTER  VII 


A    GRANDSON    OF    LOUIS    PHILIPPE 

HONFLEUR  was  living  along  in  the  quiet  of  its 
provincial  calm.  Its  business  pulse  was  beating 
with  satisfying  regularity.  The  ships  from  Norway 
were  coming  into  its  docks  laden  high  with  timber; 
the  fishermen  were  netting  big  hauls;  orchards  and 
vegetables  were  filling  full  the  thousands  of  little 
boxes  that  twice  weekly  were  sent  over  to  England; 
and  townsfolk  and  farmers  were  therefore  smoking 
the  pipe  of  peace  and  prosperity. 

There  was  enough  of  human  depravity,  between 
the  drunkenness  abroad  in  streets  and  along  the  won- 
derful Normandy  lanes  and  roads,  between  the 
enlivening  tales  of  conjugal  infidelities,  between  the 
purging  of  one's  soul  of  sins  of  omission  and  com- 
mission at  Paques  (Easter)  and  Christmas,  and  the 
following  of  the  Fetes  Dieux,  in  summer,  to  keep 
even  sluggish  souls  from  attacks  of  moral  turpitude. 

It  was  into  such  a  little  town  that  in  the  year  1910 
Honfleur  was  stirred  to  its  very  center;  a  royal 
prince  had  bought  a  chateau  on  the  C6te-de-Grace ! 

The  prince  presently  became  endowed  with  vir- 
tues and  qualities  only  less  remarkable  than  was  his 

reputed  vast  wealth.     A  Norman,  while  preaching 

no 


A  GRANDSON  OF  LOUIS  PHILIPPE 

perfection  in  virtue,  can  always  accept  second-hand 
moral  excellencies,  provided  the  pockets  be  well  lined. 

In  the  case  of  Prince  Czartorizski  there  seemed  to 
be  no  necessity  of  such  easy  acceptance  of  human 
deficiencies.  The  prince  was  young,  handsome,  ex- 
traordinarily clever,  un  lettre,  and  was  also  a  great 
traveler.  His  estates,  in  Silesia — a  country  as  vague 
to  the  Honfleur  mind  as  Timbuctoo — were,  it  was 
whispered,  as  extensive  as  a  province.  There  were 
also  princely  palaces,  it  was  rumored,  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, in  Paris,  and  in  Moscow.  As  the  ball  of  gossip 
rolled  on,  this  charming  young  descendant  of  the 
Orleans  family  was  soon  made  possessor  of  half  the 
earth's  available  lands. 

For  a  great  prince  to  send  a  secretary,  librarian, 
a  man  of  consequence,  and  his  chef,  a  reputed  cordon 
bleu,  along  the  whole  length  of  the  Normandy  coast 
to  search  for  a  suitable  hiding-place  for  a  library — 
"parbleu — ga — c'est  epatant!"  was  Honfleur's  verdict. 

No  one,  it  was  agreed,  over  the  evening  glass  of 
cider,  or  of  old  calvados,1  save  a  Pole  and  a  prince 
would  ever  have  conceived  of  such  a  project.  The 
narrow  provincial  brain  suddenly  seemed  to  expand 
merely  by  dwelling  on  such  folly;  for  books — what 
did  books  bring  in,  as  revenue,  if  one  kept  them?  To 
a  shrewd,  money-loving,  sows-handling  Norman,  to 
possess  meant  something  to  sell.  Whether  it  be 
cattle,  or  produce,  or  one's  daughter — although,  of 
course,  one  didn't  call  sticking  out  for  a  good  hus- 
band for  one's  girl  and  her  dot  a  bargain — "the  same 

1  Apple  brandy. 

Ill 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

as  trading  horses  or  a  cow" — still  possessions  to  a 
Norman  mean  always  something  that  can  be  bought 
or  sold. 

To  learn  that  the  length  of  the  Seine  shores,  as  had 
the  Normandy  coast,  had  been  visited  by  the  prince's 
confidential  men,  that  Honfleur  had  been  chosen 
above  all  other  towns,  that  the  C6te-de-Grace  was 
decided  upon  as  the  preferred  site,  confirmed  the 
citizens  of  Honfleur  in  the  agreeable  conviction  that 
Honfleur  was  the  most  beautiful  of  French  towns. 
For  centuries  the  townsfolk  had  consciously  carried 
about  with  them  this  soothing  knowledge.  To  find 
the  truth  thus  borne  in  on  others — "on  one  who  goes 
around  the  world" — is  always  pleasant  proof  that 
large  minds  were  working  outside  of  Normandy. 

Thus  was  the  purchase  of  the  prince's  chateau 
discussed,  by  high  and  low. 

Little  by  little,  something  of  the  prince's  history 
became  known. 

Prince  Witold  Czartorizski  was  no  less  a  person- 
age, it  appeared,  than  a  great-grandson  of  the  French 
king,  Louis  Philippe.  His  grandmother  had  been 
that  tragic  figure  of  a  princess  who  had  sued  obdu- 
rate revolutionaries  to  keep  the  French  crown  in 
the  family.  As  Princesse  Marguerite  d'Orleans  she 
had  her  own  sad  page  in  the  history  of  the  Bour- 
bons: the  accidental  death  of  her  young  husband, 
the  Due  d'Orleans,  heir  to  the  kingdom,  was  the 
first  blow  to  the  hopes  of  the  Orleans  branch  of  the 
Bourbon  dynasty. 

French  through  his  Orleans  ancestors,  the  prince's 

112 


A  GRANDSON  OF  LOUIS  PHILIPPE 

nationality  was  Polish,  his  father,  Prince  Ladislaw 
Czartorizski,  being  a  descendant  of  the  Jaquellons, 
kings  of  Poland. 

On  the  death  of  his  parents  the  young  prince  and 
his  elder  brother,  Adam,  went  to  live  with  their  aunt, 
Princess  Dzialyanska,  in  an  old  and  beautiful  hotel, 
the  Hotel  Lambert,  in  the  remote  He  de  Paris.  In 
this  islet  of  old  Paris  here  and  there  one  still  finds 
curiously  interesting  and  magnificent  old  houses, 
survivals  of  the  great  periods  of  fine  Parisian  houses. 

Here  this  lady,  a  woman  of  exceptional  gifts  and 
intellectual  tastes  and  attainments,  collected  year 
after  year  a  great  library — now  well  known  as  one 
replete  with  rare  and  unique  editions,  with  manu- 
scripts and  missals  of  such  beauty  and  value  as  to 
make  bibliophiles  despair  of  their  ever  coming  into 
the  market,  since  the  Czartorizskis  can  afford  to 
keep  them. 

On  the  death  of  the  Princess  Dzialyanska,  her 
heir,  Prince  Czartorizski,  sold  her  hotel  to  his  brother, 
and  looked  about  for  a  fitting  place  in  which  to 
house  his  treasured  library.  Wishing  to  be  near  the 
sea  and  in  the  country,  he  sent  his  librarian  on  a 
tour  of  inspection  along  the  Normandy  coast. 

The  choice,  as  has  been  stated,  fell  upon  the 
chateau  on  the  C6te-de-Grace — that  nobly  set  up- 
land running  from  Honfleur  to  Barneville  above  the 
coast  road  of  the  well-known  Route  de  Trouville. 

A  romantic  incident  connected  with  the  most 
fatal  events  in  the  history  of  his  Orleans  ancestry 
was  revealed  to  the  prince  as  having  had  this  very 

113 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

chateau  and  its  pavilion  and  grounds  as  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy.  The  story  of  the  flight  of  the  King 
Louis  Philippe  and  his  wife  the  queen,  given  in  the 
following  pages,  narrates  this  rare  coincidence — one 
quite  unknown  to  the  prince  at  the  time  of  his  pur- 
chase of  the  Honfleur  chateau. 

The  prince  himself  took  on,  in  time,  the  vague 
outlines  of  a  legendary  character.  While  the  chateau 
was  beautified  by  additions,  while  some  of  its  rooms 
were  said  to  be  decorated  "in  royal  style,"  while 
park  and  gardens  were  rescued  from  neglect  and 
made  to  frame,  in  fitting  beauty,  this  princely 
domain,  the  master  himself  was  never  seen.  If  he 
came,  it  was  to  make  a  stay  as  brief  as  it  was  stealthy. 
He  had  vanished  before  it  was  known  he  had  actually 
stopped  for  a  night.  Those  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to  meet  him  enlarged  on  his  charm  of  man- 
ner, on  his  cleverness,  on  his  personal  attraction. 
"Mais,  c'est  un  sauvage — il  ne  veut  voir  personne." 
"C'etait  un  Benedictin,"  said  Monseigneur  Le- 
monjuer,  in  speaking  of  the  friend  he  had  lost. 

And  then  one  day,  in  the  lonely  solitude  of  an 
over-peopled  hotel,  this  cultivated  "savage"  who 
would  "see  no  one"  was  forced  to  meet  face  to  face 
the  relentless  Reaper.  Death  took  the  charming 
prince  unawares;  this  lover  of  great  books,  this 
eager  reader  of  earth's  pages,  this  talented  and  clever 
wanderer  who  was  always  at  home  wherever  he  went, 
was  at  rest,  where  neither  books  nor  possessions  are 
needed,  in  soul-land. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    ODYSSEY    OF    A    KING    AND    A    QUEEN 


N  a  certain  February  morning  as  the  skies  were 
palely  tinted,  opening  the  short  day,  an  aged 
couple,  an  old  gentleman  and  an  old  lady,  descended 
from  a  cart,  in  front  of  a  pavilion,  on  the  C6te-de- 
Grace,  the  hill  above  Honfleur.  This  pavilion  was 
a  small,  one-story,  two-roomed  cottage  fronting  the 
road.  The  chateau  was  set  in  a  grove  of  trees  in  the 
park,  overlooking  the  coast. 

As  soon  as  the  cart  stopped  the  two  travelers 
alighted.  Both  seemed  overcome  with  fatigue;  yet 
both,  in  spite  of  their  advanced  years,  appeared  to 
be  endowed  with  a  vigor  that  was  accentuated  by 
a  certain  unmistakable  air  of  great  distinction  and 
of  authority. 

A  gardener,  named  Racine,  coming  forward  with 
haste  born  of  curiosity,  unlocked,  somewhat  ner- 
vously, the  great  gates  of  the  park.  He  had  received 
notice  that  two  such  guests  might  be  expected.  His 
master,  Monsieur  de  Perthuis,  being  absent,  Racine 
did  the  honors  of  the  small  dwelling  with  deferential, 
rustic  courtesy. 

115 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

As  the  travelers  entered  the  cottage  one  might 
have  seen  a  look  of  immense  relief  replace  an  air  of 
anxious  apprehension  that  even  a  grand  manner 
could  not  wholly  conceal. 

The  gardener,  meanwhile,  proved,  once  within  the 
security  of  the  pavilion,  that  he  knew  how  to  serve 
his  king. 

The  two  mysterious  travelers  were  none  other  than 
the  King  and  Queen  of  France — Louis  Philippe  and 
Marie  Amelie. 

Racine,  the  gardener,  had  the  quick  Norman  wit. 
A  cheap  portrait  of  the  king,  in  his  kitchen,  had 
revealed  to  him  the  identity  of  his  two  royal  guests. 

In  this  unpretentious  dwelling  the  royal  fugitives 
for  several  anxious  days  were  to  live  in  two  tiny 
rooms;  and  they  were  to  be  preyed  upon  by  all  the 
agitated  fluctuations  of  fear,  of  hope,  and  of  plans 
formed  only  to  be  abandoned. 

What  tragic  adventures  had  these  two  elderly 
sovereigns  experienced  in  the  past  few  days,  what 
fatigue,  and  what  deprivations! 

As  in  the  mad  days  of  Louis  XVI,  as  in  the  tur- 
bulent uprisings  of  the  people  in  1830,  when  Charles 
X  made  his  luckier  escape — happy  he  to  have  kept 
his  head  on  his  royal  shoulders! — so  had  this  last  of 
the  Bourbon  French  kings  heard  the  dread  thunder 
of  his  people's  cries  roll  up  in  threatening  chorus 
below  the  Tuileries  windows. 

With  the  ever-present  memories  before  these  two 
latter  monarch s  of  how  crowned  heads  are  treated 
,  when  France  decides  it  is  tired  of  crowns,  when  that 

116 


KING   LOUIS  PHILIPPE 
From  a  painting  by  Winterhalter 


THE  ODYSSEY  OP  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

"madness  of  choler"  that  leads  to  bloody  revolutions 
has  gone  through  the  blood  of  man,  what  shame 
was  the  specious  Bourbon  argument  for  any  monarch 
to  realize  that  flight,  that  an  imperious  longing  for 
safety  is  no  disgrace,  but  the  natural,  the  paramount 
obsession?  The  scaffold  which  Louis  XVI  had 
mounted  every  succeeding  sovereign  saw  as  plainly 
as  though  he  knew  it  still  to  be  erect  on  the  Place 
Louis  XV.  This  was  the  awful  specter  that  rose  to 
take  ominous  shape  each  time  the  seditious  cries 
rang  loud  of  "A  bos  le  roil"  "Aux  Tuileries!"  "Aux 
Tuileriesr 

This  constitutional  monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe 
was  to  find  no  more  stability  than  had  the  reign  of 
Napoleonic  ideals.  The  French  nation  had  essayed 
already,  in  the  four  years  since  Waterloo,  three  sets 
of  kingly  rulers.  The  nation  and  the  allies  had, 
before  Waterloo,  restored  the  brother  of  the  martyr 
— Louis  XVI — to  the  throne.  Louis  XVIII  was  re- 
stored to  his  people  after  the  famous  Hundred  Days, 
reigning  in  all  from  1815  to  1824.  With  the  Second 
Restoration  every  one — the  French  nation,  the  allies, 
England,  and  even  the  king — felt  secure.  St.  Helena 
could  never  give  the  world  the  surprise  the  island  of 
Elba  had  furnished.  Napoleon  was  far  away. 
Europe  could  breathe  freely. 

"The  King  of  France  may  die,  but  he  must  not  be 
ill,"  was  the  philosophic  summing  up  of  the  knowl- 
edge Louis  XVIII  had  gained,  in  his  nine  years' 
reign.  He  knew  he  was  committing  the  sin  of  dying 

slowly,  some  months  before  the  end  came. 
9  117 


IIP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"May  Charles  X  take  care  of  the  crown  for  this 
child,"  said  the  expiring  monarch  on  his  death-bed. 
He  could  foresee,  in  the  tragic  murder  of  the  Due  du 
Berri,  the  little  Due  de  Bordeaux's  father,  all  the 
dangers  that  had  opened  up  before  the  legitimate 
Bourbon  dynasty. 

Charles  X,  his  successor,  took  care  chiefly  of  his 
own  soul  and  of  the  church.  Like  certain  more 
modern  potentates,  he  felt  assured  of  the  guidance  of 
the  heavenly  powers  in  assuming  to  reign  auto- 
cratically. f 

There  were,  alas!  more  mundane  powers  at  work. 

"Nous  dansons  sur  un  volcane"  (" We  are  dancing 
on  the  edge  of  a  volcano")  cried  a  certain  Salvaudf, 
at  a  ball  given  by  the  Due  d'Orleans.  And  the  vol- 
cano burst  forth  presently,  pouring  its  fiery  flood 
against  despotism,  against  Bourbon  claims  to  "la 
majorite,  c'est  le  roi"  The  real  majority  soon  dis- 
posed, by  barricades,  by  the  popping  off  of  guns,  by 
the  mighty  strength  of  revolution,  of  the  king  who 
deemed  himself  superior  to  his  people. 

After  six  short  years  of  wearing  of  the  crown 
Charles  had  insisted  should  be  blessed  by  the  Pope's 
nuncio  at  Rheims,  Charles  X  had  ceased  to  reign. 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  Due  d'Orleans — Louis 
Philippe.  He  was  the  head  of  the  younger  branch 
of  the  Bourbons.  He  had  won  out,  against  the 
Duchesse  de  Berri,  the  adventurous  widow  of  the 
dead  legitimate  heir,  and  of  the  young  Due  de 
Bordeaux,  his  son  and  posthumous  child.  He  had 
won,  but  if  one  must  look  at  the  end  of  a  man's  life 

118 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

before  one  can  call  him  happy,  the  story  of  the  flight 
of  Louis  Philippe  and  the  queen  to  Honfleur  lifts  the 
veil  from  the  image  of  crowned  happiness. 

After  the  oft-changed  wearers  of  the  French  crown 
had  vanished,  the  crown  having  been  worn  eighteen 
years  by  Louis  Philippe,  behold  once  more  the  Seine 
is  to  become  the  mise-en-scene  of  a  tragic  episode 
in  the  fortunes  of  a  French  king. 


ii 

In  Paris,  in  this  year  of  1848,  revolution  was 
already  stalking  the  streets.  The  still  illusioned 
king  in  his  palace  thought  to  calm  the  popular  mad- 
ness by  signing  scraps  of  paper.  Concession  after 
concession  "to  the  people"  having  been  made,  Louis 
Philippe  believed  the  wild  fever  in  the  veins  of  the 
revolutionaries  would  calm  down.  Each  signature 
was,  in  reality,  but  the  king's  quicker  signing  of  his 
own  coming  fall. 

Nothing  more,  it  seemed  to  the  king,  was  there 
left  for  him  to  concede;  he  had  yielded  all  the  power 
vested  in  him  to  those  clamoring  for  still  more. 

"After  the  review,"  1  Monsieur  Lenotre  tells  us, 
in  his  graphic  recital  of  those  last  days  of  the  king 
in  France,  "the  king,  taking  refuge  in  his  study, 
in  the  lower  story  of  the  Tuileries,  sank  into  an  arm- 
chair. There  he  remained,  his  hand  on  his  forehead; 
the  queen  and  the  princesses  were  in  the  adjoining 

1  The  king  had  held  a  review  of  troops  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 

119 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

salon.  In  low  tones  they  whispered,  'What  is  to  be 
done?'  No  one  knows;  every  one  waits." 

Politicians,  high  dignitaries,  go  and  come;  they 
form  groups;  Thiers,  Lamoriciere,  Odilion  Barrot, 
Remusat,  Cremieux,  the  Marechaux  Gerard,  Bu- 
geaud,  Soult — every  one  is  silent,  They  await  the 
firing  that  is  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 

Emile  de  Girardin,  who  comes  up  from  the  street, 
urges  the  king  to  abdicate  in  favor  of  his  grandson, 
under  the  regency  of  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans. 

The  princess  throws  herself  on  her  knees  and  im- 
plores her  father-in-law  to  resist  a  little  longer.  The 
queen  sobs: 

"No,  no,  my  friend,  you  will  not  do  that!  Better 
to  die  than  to  go  out  of  that  door!" 

The  Due  de  Montpensier,  on  the  contrary,  counsels 
immediate  abdication. 

The  old  gentleman,  distracted,  undecided,  of  a 
dozen  minds,  asks  counsel  of  all  those  about  him, 
with  his  anxious  eyes: 

"Is  it  true  that  all  defense  is  impossible?" 

"Impossible!"  is  the  implacable  reply  from  many 
voices. 

Then,  stretching  his  hand  toward  his  desk,  Louis 
Philippe  proceeds,  with  deliberation,  to  arrange  his 
paper  and  his  pen. 

"Faster!  Faster!"  cry  the  impatient  ones  about 
him. 

"Gentlemen,  I  am  hurrying  as  fast  as  I  can." 

"Sire,"  interrupted  the  Due  de  Montpensier,  "I 
implore  you  to  hurry!" 

120 


THE  ODYSSEY  OP  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

"I  have  always  written  slowly — this  is  not  the 
moment  to  change  my  habits.'* 

In  a  firm  hand,  in  large  letters,  the  king  traced  the 
lines : 

I  abdicate  this  crown  that  the  will  of  the  nation  had  placed 
upon  my  head  in  favor  of  my  grandson  the  Comte  de  Paris. 
May  he  succeed  in  the  great  task  which  this  day  is  imposed 
on  him. 

This  24th  of  February,  1848. 

Louis  PHILIPPE. 

The  paper  was  all  but  torn  out  of  the  now  ex- 
king's  hands.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  it 
must  have  seemed  to  those  of  the  royal  family  who 
were  still  under  the  spasm  of  their  conflicting  emo- 
tions, the  palace  room  was  emptied.  So  quick  are 
courtiers  to  feel  the  receding  tide  of  royal  favor — 
so  sensitive  to  the  glacial  touch  of  windy  danger! 

Meanwhile,  in  the  king's  stables,  then  situated 
in  the  rue  Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre,1  where  now  we 
find  the  gardens  of  the  Carrousel,  postilions,  grooms, 
and  stablemen  were  in  the  throes  of  the  greatest 
excitement.  Orders  had  been  given  to  have  the 
royal  carriages  made  ready.  "Every  possible  com- 
fort and  traveling  commodity  must  be  thought  of," 
were  the  orders;  "each  carriage  must  be  fitted  out 
for  a  journey  of  several  days." 

The  crowd  of  grooms  and  stablemen  were  told 
that  the  royal  family  were  to  spent  several  days  at 
Saint-Cloud. 

With  not  undue  haste,  and  with  that  care  and 

1  Len6tre,  Lea  Dernicrs  Jours,  etc. 

121 


precision  due  to  the  high  class  of  these  aristocratic 
vehicles,  the  "Saverne,"  the  king's  own  protected 
carriage,  as  well  as  the  imposing  "Moselle,"  and  the 
"Tamise,"  for  the  prince  and  princesses,  with  a 
whole  train  of  lesser  caliches  with  such  resound- 
ing names  as  "Seine-Inferieure,"  "L'ltalienne,"  "La 
Francaise,"  "Ceres,"  "  Miner  ve" — for  royal  and 
court  carriages,  as  late  as  1848,  were  institutions  on 
ponderous  wheels,  much  to  be  revered,  solemnly 
baptized,  answering  to  then*  august  names — these 
slow-moving,  showy  vehicles  were  being  made  ready. 
Enough  horses  for  a  king's  journey  were  not  too 
speedily  harnessed.  There  had  to  be  eight  for  the 
king's  own  carriage,  six  for  the  princes'  carriages 
and  for  the  maids  of  honor,  while  other  court  func- 
tionaries had  to  put  up  with  two  steeds. 

In  the  ears  of  the  hostlers,  as  in  those  of  the 
gaudily  costumed  postilions,  impatiently  tapping 
their  bright  riding-boots  with  their  gold-mounted 
whips,  there  rose  up  from  the  Place  du  Carrousel 
the  welcoming  shouts  of  the  populace;  they  knew 
that  the  king  was  holding  the  review  of  his  troops. 
Neither  troops,  nor  postilions,  nor  hostlers,  nor  all 
Paris  knew  it  to  be  the  last  review  to  be  held  by  a 
strictly  French  legitimate  king. 

Hairon,  a  young  pickeerer,  resplendent  in  his 
royal  scarlets,  reassured  by  this  ovation,  led  the 
way;  he  sat  his  saddle  as  firmly  as  though  cast  in 
bronze  on  one  of  the  eight  horses  drawing  the  king's 
carriage. 

The  great  gates  of  the  stables  flew  open.    The  long 

122 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

line  of  the  superb  carriages  followed  one  after  the 
other.  The  street  was  then  filled  with  the  moving 
mass  of  color,  with  the  noise  of  clanking  bits,  of 
clinking*  silver  resounding  to  the  perfectly  trained 
steps  of  the  high-bred  steeds.  The  few  people  about 
stared,  as  for  eighteen  years  they  had  stared,  half 
in  awe,  half  in  delight — eyes  dazed  with  the  splendor 
of  the  show — yet  half  hating  it  all,  since  kings  were 
beginning  it  was  felt,  to  cost  too  much,  and  they 
governed  so  little! 

All  at  once  something  happened!  At  a  turn  in 
the  street  a  band  of  men,  only  twenty-five,  in  hiding, 
sprang  forward.  Raising  their  guns,  they  fired. 
Four  horses  fell,  a  stampede  ensued,  the  crowd 
gathered,  postilions  scattered;  one  of  the  latter  who 
ran  for  his  life  was  caught,  killed,  stripped,  and  left 
for  dead.  This  was  the  touch  of  human  bestiality 
that  others  had  been  waiting  for  to  begin  their  own 
orgy  of  destruction. 

Two  of  the  famous  carriages — famous  indeed  since 
their  very  names  come  down  to  us — the  "Moselle" 
and  "Saverne,"  were  to  end  their  career  in  flames. 
Straw  was  found  somewhere,  was  rolled  under  the 
splendid  vehicles,  and  crack!  crack!  sizzling,  the  fiery 
spirals  ran  up,  caught  painted  wood,  emblazoned 
crowns,  padded  interiors,  velvet  cushions,  and  silk 
curtains,  and  a  few  moments  later  all  that  was  left 
of  these  gorgeous  vehicles  was  a  mass  of  charred  re- 
mains, the  smoking  ashes  of  royal  magnificence  any 
gamin  might  have  stooped  to  handle,  as  he  cried, 
"Cr6  Dieu — ga  pique!" 

123 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in 

The  king,  meanwhile,  surrounded  by  his  family, 
and  by  the  three  friends  who  had  remained  faithful 
to  him — by  Lastyrie,  Cremieux,  and  Montalivet — 
was  listening,  in  a  maze,  to  words  that  seemed  to 
have  no  meaning  for  him.  Having  signed  the  fatal 
paper,  all  power  of  action  seemed  to  have  been 
suspended. 

"You  must  fly,  you  must  fly!"  Cremieux  was 
crying.  The  king  still  stared. 

* '  Indeed — you  must  go — and  quickly !"  This  time 
the  king  understood.  The  clamor  beneath  the  win- 
dows— the  cries,  shouts,  angry  yells — that  ominous, 
mounting  wave  of  discord  of  a  people  enraged,  of 
bestiality  at  the  breaking-point — yes,  at  last  the 
king  understood. 

With  a  single  gesture  he  removed  his  general's 
hat,  the  queen  instinctively  tearing  off  decorations, 
gold  braid,  and  epaulets.  A  large  cloak  and  a  low 
crush  hat  were  handed  him.  The  king  had  presence 
of  mind  enough  to  clutch  a  portfolio  beside  him,  on 
the  table;  and  he  passed  another,  one  crammed  with 
papers,  to  his  valet.  A  sign  to  his  wife,  whom  some 
of  those  about  had  garbed  for  her  setting  forth,  and 
then  the  strange  group  was  out  in  the  Tuileries 
gardens. 

Those  of  us  who  stroll,  on  a  fine  day,  from  the 
flower-full  gardens  opposite  the  flamboyant  statue 
of  Gambetta  do  not  count  the  distance  nor  the  time 
it  takes  to  reach  the  great  gates  that,  wide  open 

124 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

now,  guard  these  charming  Tuileries,  tree-domed 
alleys.  But — we  were  not  flying  for  our  lives!  We 
were  not  hearing  the  shouts  and  cries  in  our  ears  of 
an  infuriated  crowd.  We  were  not  shivering  as  the 
growling  thunder  of  sedition,  of  insurrection,  rolled 
nearer  and  nearer.  Were  those  about  one  crying,  "Be 
quick!  be  quick!"  while  the  very  air  seemed  electri- 
fied with  the  lightning  darts  of  death-dealing  men- 
ace— then,  hurry,  press,  rush  as  one  might,  and  the 
way  down  those  long  alleys,  the  following  of  the 
curves  of  the  Bassin — where  one  stops  nowadays  to 
watch  the  golden-haired  children  launch  their  mimic, 
white- winged  fleet — ah  me!  but  every  step  would 
seem  to  be  leaden  and  one's  very  breath  would  fail 
one. 

This  was  the  hard  journey  King  Louis  Philippe 
found  before  him,  once  he  had  left  the  comparative 
safety  of  the  Tuileries  Palace  walls.  With  his  aged 
wife  clinging  to  his  arm,  his  children  and  grand- 
children hurrying  their  footsteps,  the  faithful  valet, 
Thuret,  bending  under  the  weight  of  the  huge  port- 
folio; with  the  devoted  friends  and  followers, 
Cremieux,  General  Dumas,  and,  to  the  glory  of  art 
be  it  recorded  also,  Ary  Scheffer — this  last  remnant  of 
the  Bourbon  courts  directed  its  agitated  flight 
toward  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

Once  outside  the  gates,  the  entire  cortege  came  to  a 
startled,  to  an  affrighted  standstill. 

Where  were  the  royal  carriages?  Where  were  the 
resplendent  "Saverne,"  the  "Moselle,"  and  the 

"Tamise"? 

125 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

In  lieu  of  these  vehicles  promising  speedy  safety, 
a  screaming  crowd  was  pushing,  hustling,  climbing — it 
was  even  attempting  to  rush  the  terraces. 

The  distracted  fugitives  looked  about,  staring  in 
helpless  dismay.  At  last  they  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Salvation  was  in  sight.  A  few  brave  battalions, 
fully  armed,  were  now  surrounding  the  royal  party. 
Two  small  broughams  drawn  each  by  a  single  horse 
were  being  valiantly  protected  by  these  faithful 
troops.  Into  the  first  the  old  king  thrust  his  wife, 
Marie  Amelie,  who  was  at  the  fainting-point.  The 
king  jumped  in  after  her,  shutting  the  door  with 
surprising  vigor.  Into  the  second  carriage  the 
Duchesse  d'Orleans  and  her  three  children  crowded 
as  best  they  could. 

The  royal  party  was  off. 

Before  the  little  crowd  which  had  assembled, 
curious-eyed,  wondering  who  these  affrighted,  ex- 
cited-looking people  might  be — before  the  crowd  had 
had  time  to  recognize  in  this  elderly,  careworn 
couple  their  own  king  and  queen  of  exactly  half  an 
hour  ago,  the  two  carriages,  now  escorted  by  a  com- 
pany of  mounted  troops,  were  quickly  whirling 
along  the  Cours  la  Reine. 

The  Chateau  de  Saint-Cloud  was  to  be  the  first  halt 
in  this  melancholy  flight. 


IV 

The  king's  plan  was  to  make  a  hasty  rush  for  the 
Palace  of  Saint-Cloud.     His  true  objective  would  be 

126 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

the  Chateau  d'Eu,  he  had  pompously  announced,  it 
being  one  of  the  Orleans  private  and  personal  pos- 
sessions. In  this  chateau  the  old  king  had  decided 
that  he  and  his  dear  consort  might  comfortably 
establish  themselves,  might  settle  down,  and  await 
the  inevitable  end  which  even  kingship  could  not 
retard — so  little  had  the  lesson  taught  by  revolution- 
ary cries,  seditious  shouts,  and  a  frenzied  and 
maddened  populace,  ripe  for  any  mischief,  been 
heeded.  The  Bourbon  barrier  of  imperial  impene- 
trability to  any  view  or  unpleasant  fact  was  still 
thick  and  high,  barring  the  way  to  enlightenment,  as 
it  had  been  in  the  old  age  of  Louis  XIV. 

Louis  Philippe  still  thought  imperially.  The  sor- 
did, practical  matters  which  might  make  living  on  a 
princely  scale  more  or  less  of  a  daily  vexatious 
problem  seemed  never  to  have  occurred  to  him.  In 
their  hurried  departure  the  king  had  royally  for- 
gotten four  hundred  thousand  francs  left  in  his  desk, 
at  the  Tuileries  Palace.  This  sum  might  have  made 
residence  in  any  chateau  fairly  comfortable  for  at 
least  a  few  weeks — with  economy — and  Louis 
Philippe  was  noted  for  an  almost  Norman  talent  for 
thrift. 

Neither  the  halt  at  Saint-Cloud  nor  the  residence 
at  Eu  was  to  come  to  pass.  The  royal  fugitives 
were  urged  to  hasten  on  to  Dreux.  At  this  latter 
town,  it  was  urged,  the  king  and  queen  would  find 
themselves  also  in  their  own  domain,  since  a  large 
part  of  Dreux  and  its  great  forests  were  then  part 
of  the  Orleans  estates. 

127 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  journey  thither  was  enlivened  by  an  attempt 
of  the  king  to  effect  a  disguise.  He  took  off  his  false 
toupet,  drew  over  his  head  and  forehead  a  black 
silk  cap,  and,  on  this  eventful  day,  not  having  been 
shaved,  his  altered  appearance  seemed  to  satisfy 
even  the  anxious,  agitated  queen.  She  expressed  her 
approval  by  the  gratifying  announcement: 

"You  look  a  hundred  years  old!" 

At  Dreux  the  party  halted.  At  ten  at  night  the 
weary  fugitives  entered  the  old  town  that  is  even 
in  our  day  the  Saint-Denis,  the  tomb  of  the  royal 
Orleans  family.  Only  six  weeks  before  the  king's 
beloved  sister  Adelaide,  the  political  head  of  the 
family,  had  been  laid  at  rest  in  the  vast  family  vault. 

Instead  of  resting,  the  pious  queen  spent  her  hours 
of  respite  from  dreaded  recognition,  from  taunting, 
cruel-faced  crowds,  on  her  knees.  Her  prayers  for 
safety,  for  the  king's  quick  delivery  from  these  haunt- 
ing specters  of  fear,  were  lifted  to  heaven  beside  the 
dead  of  her  race. 

The  king,  on  the  contrary,  spent  half  his  night 
in  the  kingly  fashion  of  kings  not  yet  used  to  their 
fallen  state.  Surprised  by  "an  uncouth  fear,"  he 
was  nervously  clamoring  for  his  money,  his  comforts, 
and  his  suite;  yet  Louis  Philippe,  as  prince,  had  had 
an  apprenticeship  as  a  fugitive  and  as  an  exile. 
Eighteen  years  of  palace  luxuries,  however,  and  the 
glory  of  at  last  wearing  a  crown,  even  if,  in  the  strict 
sense  of  the  word,  Louis  Philippe  had  not  ruled 
nor  had  he  really  governed  his  people — this  habit 
of  wearing  crowns  and  sitting  on  cushioned  thrones 

128 


THE  ODYSSEY  OIF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

seems  to  be  a  habit  as  difficult  to  break  as  though 
it  were  a  vice. 


On  awakening  the  following  morning,  after  their 
scant  hours  of  rest,  a  fresh  disaster  confronted  the 
king  and  queen. 

The  Republic  had  been  proclaimed  in  Paris! 

Then,  since  the  young  Comte  de  Paris  had  not 
been  acclaimed  as  king  under  the  regency  of  the 
Duchesse  d»0rleans,  his  mother,  where  was  the  young 
king?  What  had  become  of  the  duchesse  and  her 
sons?  Here  was  an  eating  anxiety  added  to  the  grave 
uncertainty  as  to  whether  or  no,  now,  with  a  revo- 
lution in  actual  being,  the  Republic  already  a  cer- 
tainty, whether  escape  would  be  a  feasible  under- 
taking. 

It  was  some  days  before  the  full  knowledge  of  all 
that  happened  to  the  lovely  young  duchesse  and 
her  children  was  known  either  to  France  or  to  the 
duchesse's  royal  father-  and  mother-in-law. 

In  the  building  we  now  know  as  the  Chambre 
des  Deputes,  fronting  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the 
Duchesse  d'Orleans  had  been  passing  through  her 
own  tragic  hour.  She  had  led  thither  her  two  sons, 
the  Due  de  Berri  and  the  Due  de  Chartres,  instead 
of  following  the  king  and  queen. 

Her  brother-in-law,  the  Due  de  Nemours,  faithful 
to  the  guardianship  of  the  little  children  of  his  dead 
brother,  was  beside  his  courageous  sister-in-law. 

This  impetuous  flight  of  the  duchesse  with  her 

129 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

children  to  the  Corps  Legislatif  to  save  the  crown, 
in  the  hope  that  the  person  and  presence  of  the  heir 
apparent — this  child  of  six — might  appeal  to  the 
representatives  of  the  nation,  might  stir  patriotic 
emotionalism,  has  been  dramatically  described  by 
Lamartine: l 

"The  large  door  facing  the  tribune  on  a  level  with 
the  highest  seats  of  the  hall — this  door  opened.  A 
woman  appeared — it  is  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans. 
She  is  dressed  in  mourning.  Her  half-uplifted  veil 
reveals  a  face  whose  youth  and  beauty  are  enhanced 
by  her  mingled  emotions  and  her  sadness.  She  holds 
the  young  king,  who  stumbles  as  he  mounts  the 
steps,  in  her  right  hand,  and  in  her  left  she  grasps 
the  little  Due  de  Chartres — children  to  whom  this 
catastrophe  presents  itself  as  a  spectacle.  .  .  .  Some 
generals  in  uniform,  some  officers  of  the  national 
guard,  descend  in  the  wake  of  the  princess.  She 
salutes  with  timid  grace  the  motionless  assembly; 
she  seats  herself,  between  her  two  children,  below  the 
tribune,  innocent  victims  before  a  supreme  court 
which  has  come  to  hear  this  pleading  of  the  cause  of 
royalty.  At  this  moment  this  cause  is  already  won 
in  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  all." 

The  final  verdict,  however,  was  the  death-knell  of 
the  Orleans  dynasty.  "Too  late,  too  late!"  rang  out 
the  triumphant  voice  of  popular  government. 

As  soon  as  the  doom  of  the  crown  was  sounded, 
the  duchesse,  the  Due  de  Nemours,  and  the  children 
made  a  hasty  retreat  from  the  Corps  Legislatif. 

1  Lamartine,  Revolution,  1848. 

130 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

They  effected  their  escape;    but  their  whereabouts 
remained  a  mystery  for  some  time. 


VI 

On  learning  the  Republic  had  been  declared, 
Louis  Philippe  was  at  last  convinced  that  the  king- 
ship of  his  family  was  at  an  end.  Stunned,  amazed, 
stupefied  as  are  the  aged  under  any  sudden  blow — 
and  of  blows  in  twenty-four  hours  there  had  been 
enough  to  have  stricken  down  youth  and  vigor — the 
king  cried,  "It  is  like  Charles  X,  only  worse!" 

The  calamities  that  happen  to  ourselves  are  always 
worse  than  those  which  befall  our  brother. 

Once  more  the  road  of  exile  must  be  trod.  Hasty 
consultations  with  the  few  counselors  about  him 
finally  resulted  in  the  coast  of  Normandy  being 
decided  upon.  England  loomed  large  as  the  true 
goal  of  safety. 

Once  more  the  fugitives  must  take  seats  in  the 
royal  carriage  which  had  brought  them  from  Ver- 
sailles. The  king  and  queen,  it  was  decided,  were  now 
to  travel  under  the  name  of  M.  and  Mme.  Lebrun. 

Monsieur  Marechal,  the  loyal  prefet  of  Dreux  and 
a  devoted  Orleanist,  acted  in  a  truly  royal  manner. 
Six  thousand  bank-notes  and  six  thousand  in  silver 
sous  were  given  to  the  travelers.  Not  content  with 
this  proof  of  loyalty,  the  brave  man  mounted  the 
box  himself.  He  gave  the  order  to  the  postilions 
to  take  the  "road  to  Anet." 

Anet! — what    souvenirs   had   crowded    the    long 

131 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

journey.  The  Tuileries,  Versailles,  Trianon,  Dreux 
— the  last  the  sepulcher  of  all  the  dead  Orleanses; 
and  now  Anet,  the  beautiful  chateau  of  Diane  de 
Poitiers!  Each  palace  and  chateau  recalled  past 
dead  and  gone  splendors.  If  imperial  grandeur 
stars  the  road  of  great  empires  with  palatial  and 
architectural  masterpieces,  when  kings  are  forced 
into  exile  such  become  oftentimes  sinister  sign-posts 
to  point  derisively  the  way  to  safety. 

The  drive  from  Diane's  famous  chateau  and  across 
the  splendid  forest  of  Dreux — the  present  property 
of  the  Orleans  family,  and  their  preferred  hunting- 
ground — on  to  Evreux,  was  found  to  be  both  long 
and  wearisome. 

At  Evreux  a  dramatic  incident  occurred.  The 
king  was  recognized.  But  the  tragedy  of  capture 
was  happily  averted.  Clamorous  cries  arose  as  the 
carriages  approached  Evreux. 

"  Vive  la  Reforme!  A  bas  Louis  Philippe!"  greeted 
the  ears  of  the  fugitives.  It  was  market-day.  Curi- 
ous eyes  peered  into  the  great  lumbering  vehicle. 
Whispers,  then  a  loud-tongued  voice  shouted:  "C'est 
Louis!  C'est  le  roi!"  And  a  peasant,  having  recog- 
nized the  king,  ran  to  find  a  gendarme  to  arrest  him. 

The  postilion  dug  his  spurs  deep  into  the  horses' 
sides.  Springing  forward,  dashing  into  a  gallop,  the 
heavy  vehicle,  with  the  betraying  jingle  of  chains 
rattling,  of  wheels  grinding  deep  into  the  rough 
roads,  and  the  carriage  was  whirled,  by  the  horses' 
speed,  through  the  dazed  crowd  before  the  gendarme 
or  peasants  could  stop  the  flight. 

132 


Once  beyond  the  town,  the  fugitives  and  their 
escorts  sank  back  among  the  cushions,  their  breath 
quick  on  the  lip,  as  they  realized  the  gravity  of  the 
danger  they  had  escaped.  This  incident  was  the 
first  warning  of  the  more  than  probable  fate  that 
awaited  the  king  were  he  and  the  queen  to  fall  into 
revolutionary  hands. 

Louis  Philippe,  having  usurped  the  rights  of  the 
elder  branch  of  the  Bourbons  to  the  throne  in  the 
person  of  the  Due  de  Bordeaux — grandson  of  Charles 
X — and  having  held  the  throne  as  a  constitutional 
king,  establishing  a  "citizen  monarchy,"  and,  there- 
fore, also  the  royal  creature  himself  of  a  virtual 
revolution,  of  a  coup  d'etat,  had  doubtless  felt  him- 
self safeguarded  from  revolutionary  violence.  He  was 
to  learn  the  age-long  temper  of  a  populace  and  people 
when  they  had  once  tasted  of  the  wine  of  so-called 
liberty.  He  who  sits  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty 
represents  power,  authority,  tyranny.  His  head  must 
be  the  first  head  to  fall. 

With  the  force  of  this  fact  finally  borne  in  upon 
him,  Louis  Philippe,  for  the  remainder  of  the 
fearsome  journey,  assembled  his  powers  of  will, 
fronting  danger  with  calmer  resourcefulness,  since  at 
last  he  had  grasped  the  awful  fact  that  he  and  his 
dear  wife  were  in  reality  flying  for  their  very  lives. 

This  first  serious-visaged  danger  behind  them, 
the  question  that  arose,  once  they  were  abroad  upon 
the  highroad,  with  the  quick  midwinter  night  closing 
in  about  them,  was :  where  should  they,  where  could 
they,  seek  shelter  for  the  night? 
10  133 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Again  Monsieur  Marechal  proved  his  ability  to 
rescue  royalty  in  distress.  He  bethought  him  of  a 
chateau  three  miles  from  town  belonging,  happily, 
to  Monsieur  Duvilliers,  who  was,  or  who  had  been, 
most  fortunately,  Intendant  du  Roi.  His  loyalty, 
therefore,  could  be  counted  upon. 

Turning  into  the  lane  leading  to  the  chateau,  all 
was  dark.  The  hopes  of  the  travelers  sank  to  zero- 
point.  Lights,  however,  were  soon  seen  to  glimmer 
from  a  farm-house  within  the  grounds.  The  jaded 
horses  dragged  the  heavy  carriage  to  the  farm  door. 
Monsieur  Marechel  alighted,  confronting  the  burly 
form  of  the  farmer. 

On  learning  what  was  demanded  of  him,  Bertrand, 
the  stanch  defender  of  the  chateau's  treasures, 
would  hear  of  no  intrusion  of  strangers  within  its 
precincts.  Useless  were  the  arguments,  enforced  by 
good  weight  of  financial  rewards,  presented  to  him. 
No!  No!  "Non,  non  et  non,  Monsieur — my  master 
is  absent.  I  have  orders;  I  am  the  guardian  here;  I 
must  obey  my  instructions." 

Was  it  the  queen's  drawn,  pale  face,  her  timid, 
imploring  eyes  that  the  flare  of  the  lanterns  lit  up? 
Was  it  the  look  of  utter  exhaustion  on  these  two 
worn  and  weary  elderly  faces  that  softened  Ber- 
trand the  farmer's  stern  resolution? 

This  glimpse  of  Monsieur  MarechaFs  two 
"friends"  more  than  corroborated  the  prefefs 
touching  appeal. 

"You  see — this  lady  and  gentleman — they  can 
go  no  farther." 

134 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

A  large-roomed  salle  in  the  old  farm-house;  a 
blazing  fire  in  the  deep  chimney;  the  appetizing  smell 
of  onions;  and  at  a  long,  wide  table  plowmen,  dairy- 
maids, and  grooms  seated,  in  silence  now,  their 
clear  eyes  staring  at  the  new-comers — such  was  the 
scene  that  was  presented  to  the  eyes  of  the  king  and 
queen  on  entering  the  great  room. 

In  his  plain,  hearty,  rustic  fashion,  now  that 
these  two  rather  appealingly  weary  travelers  were 
under  his  roof — were  his  guests — Bertrand,  as  host, 
proved  his  kindly  nature. 

"Do  you  like  onion  soup?"  he  asked,  smilingly, 
of  the  strange-looking,  elderly  gentleman,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  use  for  his  own  hands,  since  the 
valet  unbuttoned  his  cloak,  even  took  off  his  hat, 
and,  in  performing  these  duties,  showed  his  master 
an  extraordinary  degree  of  deference.  Curiously 
attired  as  he  was,  the  old  gentleman  must  be  a 
somebody,  since  even  Monsieur  Marechal  gave  him 
the  pas,  bowing  low  as  he  seated  him  at  the  table. 

Surely,  the  quick-witted  farmer  summarized, 
though  he  was  acting  contrary  to  orders,  his  action 
in  admitting  these  strangers  would  not  be  counted 
against  him  by  his  master.  They  were  "quality," 
at  any  rate;  Bertrand  knew  people  of  rank  at  sight 
as  well  as  any  one.  Their  manners  were  enough  to 
mark  them  as  belonging — who  knows?  Perhaps  to 
the  court,  their  voices  were  so  low  and  then*  words 
so  beautifully  said.  Now  Madame  was  getting 
warmer  and  had  eaten  something,  one  could  see 
plainly  what  a  beauty  she  must  have  been.  "Elk  a 

135 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

de  la  race,  cette-la"  must  have  passed  through  the 
farmer's  mind. 

And  the  achingly  weary  lady  who  "may  have  been 
of  a  great  race"  was,  in  reality,  eating  little  or 
nothing.  She  was  too  spent  by  the  emotions 
experienced  in  the  last  day  and  night  for  this  rude, 
country  fare  to  prove  tempting. 

Only  yesterday,  at  this  same  hour,  in  the  magnif- 
icent, gilded  Tuileries  Galerie  de  Diane,  there  had 
been  spread  the  superb  royal  feast  called  "  le  diner  du 
roi"  Above  the  glistening  silver,  the  spotless 
linen,  the  priceless  Sevres  china,  and  the  decoration 
of  costly  flowers  there  rose  those  other  lovely  flow- 
ers, "the  children's  charming  heads  grouped  above 
the  splendid  board."  l 

In  twenty-four  hours  there  had  come  this  seem- 
ingly unbelievable,  this  fantastic,  turn  in  fortune's 
wheel.  Here  were  the  king  and  queen  seated  side 
by  side  with  these  farm-hands,  and  with  their  own 
serving-man — glad  of  the  protection  offered  by  these 
humble  folk,  glad  of  the  safety  under  the  roof  of 
this  farm-house,  glad  of  the  fragrant  onion  soup! 

The  king,  who  liked  onion  soup,  was  greedily 
satisfying  his  hunger.  The  queen,  meanwhile,  had 
time,  through  her  gentle,  though  tired,  eyes  and  her 
not  too  keenly  alert  mind,  to  note  vaguely  the  amaz- 
ingly strange  customs  of  those  she  was  so  certain 
only  a  Bourbon  could  rightly  govern. 

Each  plowman,  dairymaid,  and  hostler,  she  ob- 
served, held  out  his  or  her  plate,  in  turn.  Each 

Iw  Dernier9  Jours,  etc. 
138 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

received  a  portion  of  the  steaming  soup  good  enough 
for  royalty,  of  a  piece  of  cold  meat,  and  of  an  ome- 
let. Then  there  followed  a  great  clinking  of  knives 
and  spoons.  Peasant-like,  there  was  no  conversa- 
tion. The  eating  of  supper  after  the  hard  day's 
toil  was  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  interrupted  by 
idle  talk. 

It  all  seemed  right  enough,  since  such  were  the 
customs  and  habits  of  this  world  that  really  didn't 
count,  except  in  so  far  as  it  furnished  revenue,  or 
when  it  dared  to  lift  its  insolent  voice  and  shout:  "A 
mort!  A  mort!  A  has  le  roil" 

Simple  and  kindly  as  the  lowly  creatures  now 
seemed,  grouped  about  this  evening  meal,  they  were 
really  brutes — and  monsters,  it  appeared.  Even  a 
gentle  lady,  and  Marie  Amelie  was  gentle — she 
having  been  born  a  princess,  could  not  be  supposed, 
in  that  mid-nineteenth  century,  to  possess  sufficient 
elasticity  of  sympathy  to  bridge  the  chasm  separating 
"the  people"  from  their  appointed — always  by  the 
will  of  God — from  their  appointed  rulers. 

How  could  a  royal  mind  be  open  to  understand, 
to  see  to  the  roots  of  right  and  wrong,  to  comprehend 
this  wide-spread  protest  of  a  people  against  the  evils 
of  a  misgoverned,  of  a  so-called  "constitutional 
government"?  Had  Louis  Philippe  been  able  to 
remount  his  throne,  the  lesson  that  might  have 
taught  him  certain  facts  about  the  world  he  was  sup- 
posed to  govern  would  have  availed  naught.  He  was 
a  Bourbon.  It  was  the  will  of  God  that  the  French 
peasant  should  bend  double  over  the  soil,  should 

137 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

plow  it,  sow  it,  harvest  it,  so  that  Bourbons  might 
rule  over  them  in  purple  and  fine  linen.  This  taking 
the  will  of  God  for  granted  has  cost  several  kings  and 
emperors  in  our  own  day  a  greater  surprise  than  even 
came  to  the  Bourbons. 


VII 

It  was  only  after  the  ending  of  the  simple  meal 
that  the  farmer  Bertrand  was  informed  who  the 
guests  were  whom  he  had  so  reluctantly  admitted. 

Bertrand,  though  inured  to  hardships  and  the 
trials  every  farmer  must  face,  had  no  nerves  steeled 
for  such  surprises.  He  nearly  fainted.  On  recover- 
ing his  equilibrium,  his  clear,  practical  brain  devised 
a  plan  which  all  concerned  deemed  the  best  solution 
of  the  grave  difficulty  of  passing  through  the  now 
republican  town  of  Evreux,  after  the  alerte  of  the 
day  before. 

"I'll  take  my  big  cart,  the  one  I  take  to  market — 
and  my  two  best  horses.  All  Evreux  knows  me — 
and  the  cart."  And  Bertrand  added,  he  could 
promise  to  land  the  king  at  Honfleur  that  very  same 
night,  without  relay  of  horses — "a  matter  of  twenty- 
four  leagues" — sixty-odd  miles.  Bertrand  made 
this  announcement  with  a  reassuring  certainty.  He 
had  the  peasant's  proper  pride  in  his  brave  steeds 
and  in  the  driving  of  his  king  to  safety.  What  a 
tale  to  tell,  as  long  as  he  lived,  to  his  children  and  his 
children's  children,  but  not  now — later,  when  it 
would  be  safe. 

138 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

There  was  only  one  stumbling-block  that  barred 
the  way  to  an  assured  success  of  the  scheme.  The 
king — yes,  and  Thuret,  the  valet — Betrand  could 
promise  to  pass  both  through  the  town.  But  the 
queen! — there  lay  the  danger.  Evreux  would  be 
curious  as  to  the  name  and  status  of  so  aristocratic- 
looking  a  lady.  The  king,  in  his  disguise — oh,  he  would 
be  safe!  He  looked  like  any  other  old  gentleman. 

The  difficult  decision,  therefore,  must  be  made. 
The  poor  old  hunted  king  and  his  adoring  wife 
must  part.  It  would  be  but  for  a  few  hours.  There  was 
no  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  queen.  To  protect 
her  idolized  husband — and  king — to  what  extremi- 
ties would  not  the  self-sacrificing  Marie  Amelie 
have  gone?  The  scaffold  itself  would  have  held  no 
terrors  for  so  pious,  so  self-obliterating  a  soul. 

Marie  Amelie,  it  was  therefore  quickly  decided, 
would  proceed  alone  on  her  journey.  This  resolu- 
tion, surely,  proved  superb  courage.  Here  was  a 
lady  to  go  through  nearly  a  hundred  kilometers  of 
country,  in  a  carriage  that  would  draw  every  eye; 
through  towns  and  villages  already  drunk  with  the 
fiery  wine  of  supposed  liberty,  all  of  their  lively, 
curious  inhabitants  already  on  the  qui  vive  of  excite- 
ment, tingling  with  the  news  of  the  attempted 
evasions  of  the  king  and  queen;  and  every  peasant 
and  townsman  hoping  it  would  fall  to  his  happy 
luck  to  catch  a  live  king  and  queen  and  thus  earn 
not  only  a  nation's  gratitude,  but  as  well  a  sub- 
stantial reward.  Dame!  names  had  gone  down  into 
history  for  a  far  less  glorious  act. 

139 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Possibly  divining  all  this,  Marie  Amelie  went  forth 
upon  her  journey  as  a  pious  and  gentle-minded  queen 
and  lady  should.  She  said  her  prayers  and  then 
mounted  the  high  steps  of  the  heavy  vehicle  with 
the  dignity  of  a  queen  and  the  courage  of  a  good 
Catholic. 

The  king  had  started  long  before  her. 

It  was  still  night  when  he  made  his  toilet.  Once 
again  he  donned  his  big  spectacles,  he  pulled  his 
black  cap  over  his  forehead  and  his  coat  collar  up 
to  his  nose;  then  he  seated  himself  beside  Thuret, 
his  valet,  and  was  driven  out  into  the  dark  lanes. 

No  less  a  brilliant  raconteur  than  Victor  Hugo 
used  to  hold  his  audience  captive  with  the  dra- 
matic manner  in  which  he  narrated  this  drive  from 
Evreux  to  Honfleur.  Hugo  had  had  the  whole  story 
from  Thuret  himself. 

On  reaching  Evreux  the  cart  was  stopped.  A 
national  guard,  one  created  overnight,  barred  the 
way.  He  lifted  curious,  scrutinizing  eyes  to  the  man 
driving  the  cart  and  to  his  two  passengers.  In  the 
cold,  raw  air  of  the  February  morning  his  voice 
sounded  as  though  hoarsely  croaking  the  knell  of 
fate. 

"Hey! — hola! — whom  have  you  here?  It  is  said 
the  king  is  trying  to  escape;  that  he's  here- 
abouts— " 

"That's  news,  neighbor,"  dryly  remarked  Ber- 
trand. 

The  swaying  lantern  now  reached  the  farmer's 
calm,  red  face. 


QUEEN   MARIE-AMELIE 
From  a  painting  by  Winterhalter 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

"Tiens,  c'est  toi,  Bertrand.  I  know  him,"  cried 
the  apparently  na'ive  guard  to  those  about  him. 
Then  swiftly  the  man  drew  close  to  the  cart-wheels  to 
whisper,  still  more  hoarsely,  "I  also  know  your  pas- 
senger. Go  quickly!" 

So  there  were  still  brave  hearts  beating  under 
republican  uniforms.  Once  more  the  king  could 
draw  his  breath  freely,  could  crawl  into  his  coat  for 
greater  warmth,  and  summon  further  courage  for 
the  long  journey. 

VIII 

All  along  that  beautiful  road  you  and  I  follow 
on  our  motor-trips  from  Paris  into  Normandy, 
through  the  upper  plains  of  the  Eure,  through  its 
wooded  slopes,  on  to  Tbibouville-la-Riviere,  where 
one  turns  from  the  Evreux  national  road  to  follow 
the  vagabond  river  Risle — a  river  that  would  be 
counted  but  a  stream  in  America — on  and  on  the 
heavy  peasant  cart,  with  its  heavy-hearted  king  as 
passenger,  rolled. 

It  was  a  drive  that  seemed  endless.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock  at  night  before  Thibouville-la-Riviere  could 
be  reached. 

How  favorite  a  route  was  the  following  of  the 
Risle  Valley  road  for  royalty  in  flight !  Its  essentially 
rustic  character  was  one  of  the  chief  reasons  of  this 
choice.  Along  this  country  road  one  sees  country 
sights.  One  passes  Normandy  thatched  houses 
that  are  still  thatched,  and  not  roofed  with  bright, 
iron  tiles;  there  are  peasant  gardens,  clambering 

141 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

roses  de  Dijon,  and  hollyhocks  as  high  as  the  hedges; 
and  there  are  all  the  pleasant  farm-house  features 
of  wandering  cattle,  meandering  sheep,  and  flocks  of 
geese  and  ducks  solemnly  waddling  to  the  river, 
one  of  just  the  right  size  for  a  comfortable  bath. 

At  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  however,  only  the 
security  and  pastoral  quiet  were  things  to  be  thank- 
ful for. 

Port  Audemer,  the  first  large  town  on  their  route, 
the  fugitive  king  could  pass  in  comparative  calm. 
Few  were  the  lights  in  such  towns  in  1848,  and  fewer 
still  those  of  its  inhabitants  abroad. 

Just  beyond  the  town  the  queen's  carriage  passed 
the  slower-going  peasant  cart.  A  sigh  of  relief  must 
have  been  the  mutual  greeting  of  this  king  and 
queen  who  might  not  even  salute  the  other  on  the 
open  road. 

The  faint,  pale  February  sun  broke  timidly  on 
the  gloom  of  a  dark  morning  when  at  seven  o'clock 
a  cart  drawn  by  two  weary,  jaded  horses  pulled  up 
in  front  of  the  small  pavilion  on  the  Upper  Honfleur 
road,  on  the  C6te-de-Grace. 

In  one  account  of  this  odyssey  of  the  king  it  is 
recorded  that  both  king  and  queen  alighted  from 
the  cart.  Their  joint  appearance  at  the  chateau 
gate,  in  whose  inclosure  was  the  unpretentious  pavil- 
ion to  which  they  sought  admission,  presupposes 
the  queen  having  abandoned  her  carriage.  She  may 
have  changed  along  the  road  close  to  Honfleur  to 
take  her  place  beside  her  husband  in  the  cart.  This 
version  of  the  adventure  seems  probable  in  view  of 


THE  ODYSSEY  OP  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

the  danger  of  discovery  as  so  sumptuous  a  vehicle  as 
the  carriage  might  have  caused.  An  appearance  in 
the  Honfleur  streets  of  a  royal  carriage  covered  with 
mud  at  seven  in  the  morning  could  hardly  be  ex- 
plained on  the  ground  of  this  excursion  into  Nor- 
mandy, in  midwinter,  being  a  mere  pleasure  trip. 

Even  at  seven  in  the  morning  the  Norman  towns- 
man's curiosity  is  wide  awake.  With  certain  rumors 
that  were  soon  to  be  broad-spread,  of  a  price  on  the 
king's  head,  even  slower  wits  than  keen-edged  Nor- 
man brains  would  soon  have  traced  the  arrival  of 
a  royal  carriage  at  a  matutinal  hour;  of  a  sad-faced, 
aristocratic-nosed  elderly  lady  as  sole  occupant  of 
the  vehicle;  and  her  descenf;  at  an  obscure  pavilion, 
where  she  was  joined  by  an  aged-looking,  fatigued 
monsieur,  as  being  the  right  prey. 

The  peasant's  cart  was  the  happily  inspired 
camouflage. 

IX 

"The  affairs  of  the  heart  cannot  be  paid." 
This  was  the  farmer  Bertrand's  noble  response 
when  he  was  offered  payment  for  the  courageous 
undertaking  of  landing  his  king  safely  at  Honfleur. 
He  had  risked  his  own  life  and  also  the  loss  of  his 
horses;  and  to  a  farmer  the  latter  would  weigh 
almost  as  heavily  in  the  balance  of  possible 
danger  as  the  more  serious  ending  of  one's  own 
existence. 

Bertrand,  his  future,  his  cart,  and  his  horses  fade 
into  the  mists  of  unwritten  history.  But  his  page 

143 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in  the  annals  of  this  adventure  of  a  king's  flight  is 
a  bright  one. 

The  days  that  followed  were,  like  the  nights,  full 
of  tortured  anxiety  for  the  king  and  queen.  Nature 
appeared  to  have  taken  a  hand  in  piling  up  obstacles 
and  in  increasing  the  difficulties  of  the  attempt  to 
reach  the  English  coast. 

Tempests,  raging  seas,  icy  temperatures — such 
was  the  awesome  weather  that  greeted  the  fugitives. 
The  Seine  was  running  its  mad,  midwinter  course 
of  fury;  one  might  have  thought  the  sea  beyond 
Havre  had  human  passions  and  unstrung  nerves. 
There  were  passionate  outbursts  that  flung  their 
anger  like  blows  across  the  broad  mouth  of  the 
Seine.  There  could  be  no  thought  of  crossing,  even 
to  Havre,  in  the  teeth  of  such  a  gale. 

Rumors  as  sinister  as  the  dread  weather  filled 
the  Honfleur  streets,  crept  up  the  C6te-de-Grace, 
penetrated  stealthily  through  the  tightly  closed 
doors  and  narrow  casements  of  the  tiny  pavilion. 

A  severe  order  of  the  republican  government  had 
reached  Normandy.  The  king  and  queen,  it  was 
known,  had  fled  toward  the  coast.  Their  escape 
must  be  prevented.  Any  one  harboring  them  must 
pay  forfeit  with  his  life.  A  price  was  set  upon  the 
king's  head. 

This  order  was  listened  to  in  outward  calm  and 
with  inward  tremors  by  the  fugitives.  Immediate 
flight  across  the  Channel  became  the  more  im- 
perative. 

One  look  across  to  Havre,  from  the  heights  of  the 

144 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

chateau  grounds,  was  enough  to  convince  the  most 
courageous  among  the  party  that  the  crossing  from 
Honfleur  was  an  impossibility.  No  boat  could  run 
in  the  teeth  of  such  weather. 

Trouville!  Why  not  try  Trouville?  This  sea- 
coast  town  was  directly  opposite  Havre;  the  tidal 
changes  that  made  the  crossing  via  Honfleur  uncer- 
tain and  dangerous  would  not  affect  the  more  open 
sea-spaces  fronting  the  Trouville  beaches. 

It  was  decided  to  despatch  Racine  on  a  tour  of 
investigation.  He  returned  with  great  news.  He 
had  found  a  man,  a  sailor,  who  seemed  sent  by 
Providence.  He  was  named  Hallot;  he  had  sailed 
on  the  Belle  Poule,  having  served  under  the  Prince 
de  Joinville,  the  king's  own  son.  Hallot  had  been 
among  the  "braves"  who  had  brought  Napoleon's 
remains  from  St.  Helena  to  Paris. 

Hallot  would  lay  down  his  life  for  his  king. 

What  was  more  to  the  point,  he  had  arranged  a 
seemingly  perfect  plan  for  facilitating  the  king's 
crossing  over  to  England.  He  had  found  a  sailor 
who  would  take  Louis  Philippe  across  to  Havre. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Racine  harnessed 
his  one  horse  to  a  tiny  cart,  and  off  the  king  started 
for  what  he  hoped  was  the  end  of  his  great  adventure. 

In  such  a  vehicle,  confronting  such  winds  and 
tempests,  it  took  hours  to  reach  Trouville.  There 
was  a  dramatic  meeting  of  the  king  with  Hallot  and 
the  sailor  who  had  sworn  to  convey  his  royal  pas- 
sengers safely  across  the  water. 

But  the  sea  was  raging;  the  waves  were  now 

145 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

mountainous;  no  fisherman's  boat  could  live  in  such 
angry  waters.  The  project  must  be  abandoned. 
The  sailor,  indeed,  flatly  refused  to  go. 

In  view  of  this  fresh  setback,  it  was  hastily  de- 
cided, as  on  the  morrow  the  sea  might  be  calmer, 
that  the  king  must  remain  overnight  at  Trouville. 
Broken  now  to  meet  any  fate  that  might  be  meted 
out  to  him,  Louis  Philippe  reluctantly  acquiesced. 
He  passed  a  night  of  terror  that  outfaced  all  possible 
discomfort,  in  a  fisherman's  miserable  hut.  It  was 
already  a  whispered  fact  in  Trouville  that  he  had 
come  to  the  town  hoping  to  effect  his  escape  to 
England.  Orders  had  been  given  to  search  all  the 
houses.  The  king,  therefore,  must  be  kept  in 
strictest  hiding;  he  must  not  even  show  himself  at 
a  window. 

Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  a  fisherman 
rushed  in.  They  had  been  betrayed!  In  a  moment 
the  gendarmes  would  appear  and  the  king  would  be 
taken. 

The  king  was  pushed  unceremoniously  toward  a 
back  door  of  the  hut.  An  unknown  man  was  stand- 
ing in  the  door.  The  king  drew  back  in  affright. 
But  the  stranger  announced  in  a  whisper  his  fidelity. 
He  begged  his  king  to  follow.  He  led  Louis  Philippe 
through  Trouville's  most  tortuous  streets. 

Stumbling,  drenched  with  rain,  forced  to  walk  on 
and  on,  with  the  stinging  hail  beating  against  eyes 
and  face,  the  two  finally  reached  Touques,  about 
two  kilometers  out  of  Trouville.  There  a  char-d- 
banes  was  found  awaiting  the  now  exhausted  fugi- 

146 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

live.  It  was  the  loyal  mayor  of  Trouville  himself 
whom  the  king  must  thank  for  thus  leading  him  once 
more  out  of  the  jaws  of  a  horrible  fate. 

General  de  Rumigny  and  M.  de  Perthuis,  the 
owner  of  the  C6te-de-Grace  chateau  and  pavilion, 
were  now  the  king's  companions  to  Honfleur.  The 
road  leading  thither — the  one  from  Touques — would 
offer  greater  security,  it  was  decided,  than  the  coast 
road,  since  it  is  inland,  and,  at  night  would  be 
deserted.  Through  the  darkness,  the  only  fellow- 
travelers  were  the  stinging  wind  and  the  pitiless 
rain.  The  night's  adventure  was  not  to  end  without 
one  more  test  of  the  old  king's  powers  of  endurance. 
It  was  necessary,  as  a  measure  of  greater  safety, 
for  the  three  travelers  to  mount  the  steep  C6te-de- 
Grace  on  foot. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  party,  the  king  found  his 
wife  so  overcome  with  delight  at  his  return  that 
she  cried  for  joy.  She  gave  a  hurried  account  of  her 
own  four  days'  dreary  experiences:  she  had  seen  no 
one;  she  had  not  dared  even  to  open  a  window.  She 
had  tried  to  sew  to  calm  her  nerves.  It  was  in 
prayer  rather  than  in  her  needle  that  the  queen 
had  found  relief  from  her  heart-sickening  anxiety. 

What  was  left  of  the  night  was  spent  in  much- 
needed  rest. 

The  next  morning  fresh  consultations  were  held. 
With  the  advent  of  M.  de  Perthuis,  the  owner 
of  the  chateau  and  pavilion,  more  vigorous  measures 
were  soon  adopted  and  effected. 

It  was  learned  that  the  Courrier — the  Honfleur 

147 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

boat  ferrying  across  to  Havre — was  to  leave  that 
very  evening.  The  departure  of  the  king  and  queen 
must  not  be  delayed.  Every  moment  might  bring 
about  tragic  results.  The  order  to  watch  for  the 
royal  fugitives  was  now  general;  domiciliary  visits 
would  be  made.  The  embarkation,  therefore,  must 
be  most  carefully  planned. 

It  was  decided  that  the  party  should  be  divided. 
The  king,  under  the  name  of  Sir  William  Smith, 
would  board  the  vessel  alone.  The  queen,  and  after 
her  M.  de  Perthuis,  and  Thuret,  the  valet,  would 
each  cross  the  gang-plank  leading  to  the  boat 
separately.  The  gloomy  February  twilight  was 
friendly  to  the  enterprise.  Few  were  the  lights  in 
streets,  docks,  quays,  or  on  boats  in  1848.  At  last 
all  were  on  board  and  the  boat  pushed  off.  As 
strangers  to  one  another  the  party  of  four  attracted 
no  dangerous  surveillance. 

Some  traveling  musicians  were  enlivening  the  trip 
across  the  still  stormy  waters.  Their  choice  of  a 
song  was  one  hardly  calculated  to  raise  the  spirits 
or  solace  the  depressed  minds  of  at  least  two  on 
board  who  had  experienced,  for  over  a  long  week  of 
suffering  and  fatigue,  vicissitudes  that  might  well 
have  worn  to  shreds  of  nervous  exhaustion  even  the 
very  young. 

"0  Richard,  0  mon  hoi 
L'univers  t'abandonnel " 

was  the  song  that  rang,  in  cracked  high  voices  above 
the  roaring  seas. 

148 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  A  KING  AND  A  QUEEN 

At  Havre  both  voices  and  waters  were  stilled.  In 
the  darkness  it  was  easy  to  lead  the  strangers  to 
the  English  ship,  one  that  lay  alongside.  English 
loyalty,  English  sympathy  for  fallen  grandeur,  Eng- 
lish hospitality,  met  the  uneasy  fugitives  at  the  very 
gang-plank  of  L'Express.  The  success  of  the  final 
escape  to  safety  was  wholly  due  to  Mr.  Jones, 
English  vice-consul  at  Havre. 

As  the  ex-king  and  queen  pass  out  into  the  misty 
night,  and  across  the  Channel  to  the  white  cliffs  of 
England,  even  as  the  boat  that  conveys  the  royal 
pair  merges  into  the  thickness  of  the  night,  the 
Bourbon  rule  over  France  fades  into  a  vanished 
dream. 


NOTE. — Since  this  chapter  was  written,  an  article  has  appeared  in 
La  Revue  de  Paris  (December  1,  1919)  in  which  the  former  mayor  of 
Trouville  gives  a  graphic  account  of  the  tragic  days  passed  at  Trouville, 
when  the  king  was  awaiting  his  transportation  to  England.  This 
recital  differs  in  some  slight  particulars  with  the  former  historic  render- 
ing. The  king  was  more  comfortably  lodged,  more  devoted  friends 
and  adherents  surrounded  him,  than  in  the  other  popular  version  of 
his  stay  in  Trouville. 

The  danger  of  discovery  was,  it  appears,  even  greater  than  has  been 
commonly  stated,  and  the  king's  courage  and  calm  during  the  long, 
anxious  days  and  nights  were  the  marvel  of  those  who  helped  to  rescue 
him  from  a  fate  worse  than  death. 

11 


CHAPTER  IX 

UP  THE   SEINE 


THE  actual  starting  forth  from  the  Havre  docks 
for  our  long  day's  trip  up  the  Seine  had  no  such 
dramatic  complications  as  attended  the  departure 
of  an  exiled  king  and  queen.  There  are  unmeasured 
advantages  in  being  a  simple  citizen.  Those  who 
have  had  the  luck  to  be  born  such,  and  yet  dream  of 
crowns,  have  already  sold  to  heady  ambition  a  por- 
tion of  their  birthright. 

Like  Louis  Philippe,  our  interest  and  his  had,  at 
least,  this  in  common:  would  the  tidal  boat  crossing 
from  Honfleur  to  Havre  be  in  time? 

On  this  particular  morning  the  boat,  its  captain, 
or  the  tides  seemed  suddenly  endowed  with  a  con- 
science; instead  of  just  missing  the  Havre  steamer 
to  Rouen,  we  should  catch  it. 

The  face  of  Havre  appeared  changed  to  us  as  we 
neared  its  docks.  It  was  rather  we  who  looked  at 
the  city  with  new  eyes.  We  now  knew  its  history. 
Sympathy  came  with  understanding,  and  out  of 
sympathy  liking  had  been  born.  "  Comprendre — c'esi 
aimer"  says  a  French  writer. 

There  was  not  a  single,  crazy,  toppling,  gray- 
faced  house  lining  the  Havre  quays;  nor  was  there 

150 


a  single,  slatternly  shape  leaning  forth  from  a  sag- 
ging window-frame,  but  each  and  all  were  endowed 
with  a  certain  poignant  interest.  We  were  in  the 
secret  of  their  past. 

Early  as  was  our  start,  Havre  was  in  a  gay  mood. 
The  inner  harbor  was  tremendously  alive.  Boats 
were  whistling,  were  tooting  signals;  decks  were 
being  scrubbed  with  a  vigor  born  of  the  warm  sun- 
rays;  cries  from  fishing-boats  to  quays  were  an- 
swered by  still  louder  cries;  great  ships  were  being 
towed  out  to  sea  with  that  air  of  state,  as  though 
this  acceptance  of  aid  from  a  fussy  torpedo  were  the 
condescending  grace  of  power  to  inferior  craft  who 
might  be  victims  of  a  tragic  end,  were  the  ships  to 
put  forth  their  full  speed. 

We  had  not  been  steaming  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  once  again  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the  water- 
way held  us  captive.  Again  the  superb  breadth  of 
the  Seine's  great  mouth;  the  brilliancy  of  its  spar- 
kling surface;  the  moving  boats,  ships,  and  sailing 
craft  held  the  eyes,  enchaining  sight  and  sense. 

We  needed  no  fisherman's  hoarse  cry  across  the 
river,  nor  even  the  white  company  of  the  sea-gulls, 
to  set  for  us  the  seal  of  contrast.  The  Normandy 
shores  were  now  to  be  looked  at  from  a  river — as 
shores — a  point  of  view  as  changed  as  when  a  man 
views  his  wife  in  perspective,  as  it  were,  no  longer  his, 
but  another's. 

There  was  now  the  loud  tooting  of  shrill  whistles; 
there  was  the  sharp  snort  of  the  boat's  last  blast  of 
warning ;  and  the  onlookers  along  the  gray  quays  were 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

turning  their  backs  on  a  show  that  was  nearly  over, 
for  at  Havre  every  departing  boat,  to  a  Havrais, 
promises  the  possible  sport  of  a  surprise,  an  incident, 
or  the  more  exciting  sensation  of  an  accident. 

The  boat  at  Rouen  lay  not  far  from  the  quay  on 
which  the  Honfleur  boat  had  landed  us. 

Once  aboard,  the  spirit  of  adventure  seemed  to 
spread  its  wings.  We  had  the  heady  feeling  of  going 
off  on  a  quest  of  new  sights  and  scenes,  new  impres- 
sions and  sensations.  Going  up  to  Rouen  by  boat 
on  a  voyage  of  the  discovery  of  the  Seine  assumed  the 
importance  of  a  serious  event.  No  one  knew  what 
might  happen  nor  what  unlooked-for  novelties  we 
might  chance  upon. 

We  were  not  alone  in  considering  the  starting  forth 
on  this  voyage  a  matter  of  consequence.  Our  fellow- 
passengers  had  the  serious  air  of  those  who  were 
setting  forth  on  a  lengthy  journey.  There  were 
those  who  showed  signs  of  having  slept  ill;  others 
were  unnaturally  gay;  luncheon  -  baskets  were 
brought  on  board  with  the  care  one  might  bestow  on 
a  nursing  infant;  and  the  choice  of  seat  and  place  on 
deck  was  gravely  discussed  by  voices  raised  in  heated 
dispute. 

The  scenes  of  parting,  on  the  quays,  were  charac- 
teristic of  French  love  and  delight  in  making  the 
most  of  an  exciting  moment.  There  were  tender 
embraces,  resounding  kisses  were  interchanged,  loud 
clappings  were  given  to  shoulders  or  back,  and  there 
were  admonitions  all  could  hear,  "not  to  sit  in  a 
draught,"  "to  be  sure  to  protect  one's  ears,  the  winds 

153 


UP  THE  SEINE 

are  so  high  along  the  river!"  and  "to  send  post- 
cards!" 

One  could  be  quite  positive  certain  changes  in 
wills  must  have  been  made  overnight.  For  no 
Frenchman  goes  forth  on  a  day's  journey  without 
making  sure  his  house  is  in  order.  To  undertake  any 
journey  is  always  a  matter  of  grave  consideration 
in  France. 

The  boat  was  slipping  out  from  the  harbor.  We 
were  off. 

As  we  rounded  the  harbor  pier-heads,  once  more 
the  splendor  of  the  great  outlook,  over  the  Channel, 
the  Seine's  great  mouth,  the  shrouded  city  and  the 
tender  greens  of  the  opposite  coast  surprised  and 
delighted  the  eye.  Once  more  we  were  a  part  of 
the  water-world,  off  on  a  voyage  of  adventure. 

Harfleur's  spire,  a  few  miles  along  the  shore,  to  the 
left,  was  our  first  discovery. 

Seen  from  the  boat's  deck,  the  town  showed  clus- 
ters of  houses  above  whose  roofs,  lancelike,  Saint- 
Martin's  famous  Gothic  spire  showed  its  gray  lace- 
work  against  the  morning's  blues. 

Harfleur  and  Honfleur  have  stared  at  each  other 
across  the  Seine,  like  two  jealous  women,  for  long 
centuries.  Harfleur  also  has  had  its  story  of  ro- 
mance, its  moment  of  glow  and  power,  and  its 
tragedy  of  semi-extinction.  Second  only  in  im- 
portance to  Honfleur,  its  rival,  as  the  second  port  of 
northern  France,  until  Havre  rose  to  extinguish 
both,  Harfleur  had  riches  enough  to  tempt  both 
Norman  pirates  and  English  conquerors. 

153 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

William  II  of  Germany  must  have  remembered 
Henri  V's  methods  of  carrying  off  valuable  human 
booty  to  enrich  his  own  land. 

In  the  siege  by  which  the  English  king  captured 
Harfleur,  after  forty  days  of  heroic  resistance,  sea- 
power  played  its  great,  effective  game.  While 
Harfleur  could  draw  provisions  from  the  interior, 
Henry  had  behind  him  all  England  as  a  storehouse. 

The  conditions  imposed  on  Harfleur,  after  her 
capitulation,  were  as  hard  and  as  cruel  as  have  been 
those  the  world  has  been  crying  out  against  in  our 
recent  war.  The  conqueror  wanted  those  stout- 
hearted Harfleurais  to  blood  his  own  England. 
Above  all,  he  proposed  there  should  be  no  further 
breeding  of  heroes  in  the  Norman  town.  Sixteen 
hundred  of  the  best  families  of  Harfleur  were  car- 
ried off  to  England,  with  only  "a  portion  of  their 
clothing  and  five  sols." 

Harfleur  in  its  now  tranquil  aspect  appears  to 
have  forgotten  its  tragic  epoch.  France  itself,  like 
all  excitable,  imaginative  nations,  easily  forgets. 
The  very  climate  bids  one  to  believe  in  the  best. 
Once  a  danger  past,  and  a  Frenchman  is  prone  to  fall 
into  the  optimistic  error  that,  since  lightning  never 
strikes  twice  in  the  same  place,  the  next  bolt  from 
the  blue  will  pass  him  by. 


II 

The  Seine  had  suddenly  narrowed.    We  were  now 
clearly  in  the  true  river.    The  uprising  chalk  cliffs, 

154 


THE   BELL   TOWER   OF   HAKFLEUR   IN   NORMANDY 


UP  THE  SEINE 

showing  their  white  face,  on  our  left,  were  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  great  stretches  of  green  fields, 
peopled  with  cattle,  and  the  long  lines  of  tree- 
domed  elms  on  the  other. 

Close  to  the  water's  edge  there  ran  a  long  terrace. 
Above  the  terrace  there  is  still  pointed  out  by  the 
guides  and  historians  a  chateau  whose  story  has 
two  women  for  its  heroines.  This  chateau  is  built 
over  or  near  the  site  of  the  former  abbaye  of  Gres- 
tain.  In  this  abbaye  one  woman  was  buried  whose 
history  had  a  certain  analogy  to  that  of  her  sister 
in  sin — yet  what  a  moral  chasm  separates  the  two ! 

Arlette,  proud  mistress  of  Robert  the  Devil,  proud 
mother  of  William  the  Conqueror,  who  went  to 
her  undoing  with  the  port  and  bearing  of  a  queen> 
though  but  a  tanner's  daughter,  was  buried  in  the 
abbaye. 

Lovely  La  Valliere  spent  a  briefer  time  at  the 
chateau.  Her  incomparably  beautiful  blue  eyes  have 
looked  across  these  waters  as  do  we;  her  delicate 
delight  in  lovely  things  must  have  joyed  in  this 
summer  sea,  in  this  brilliantly  colored  river,  in  the 
stately  hills,  and  hi  these  dazzlingly  white  cliffs. 
La  Valliere  who  was  "ashamed  of  being  Louis  XIV's 
mistress,  ashamed  of  being  a  mother,  ashamed  of 
being  a  duchess" — what  a  development  of  sensi- 
bility in  six  centuries !  It  is  true  it  took  six  centuries 
to  develop  this  delicacy  of  feeling. 

A  few  miles  beyond  the  abbaye,  above  a  steep 
cliff,  a  collection  of  noble  ruins  and  stately  buildings 
arrests  the  eye.  A  Norman  keep,  separate,  ivy- 

155 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

garlanded,  guards  the  cliffs  to  the  east;  a  long 
chateau,  of  later  date,  with  wide-open  windows  to 
prove  life  is  still  being  lived  in  this  grand  old  sanct- 
uary of  heroic  deeds,  and  now  to  the  west  another 
tower  of  defense  is  descried.  These  majestic  build- 
ings must  have  their  story  to  tell. 

This  Chateau  of  Tankerville,  indeed,  is  as  old  as 
France,  older  than  this  land  which,  when  the  first 
defenses  above  on  the  cliff  were  built,  was  Normandy 
and  not  yet  France.  You  must  go  to  technical  books 
on  the  history  of  military  fortresses  to  learn  all  the 
wonders  of  this  outpost  of  defense  called  Tanker- 
ville. They  will  tell  you  that  "the  ensemble  of  the 
courtines  and  the  towers  composing  the  fortress  fol- 
lowed the  triangular  plan  of  the  cliff's  plateau — a 
plan  which  suggests  the  conclusion  the  fortress  was 
erected  at  a  single  stroke." 

It  is  certain  there  are  portions  of  the  building 
which  may  be  traced  to  the  eleventh,  others  to  the 
thirteenth,  while  still  others  were  built  as  late  as  the 
sixteenth  century. 

The  story  of  those  who  have  lived,  dreamed, 
loved,  gone  forth  to  die,  or  returned  to  enjoy  the 
rewards  of  noble  deeds  and  splendid  adventures — 
this  story  of  a  great  family  should  fill,  not  a  page, 
but  a  volume.  "Whoever  formerly  mentioned  a 
Comte  de  Tankerville  named  also  a  Constable  of 
Normandy.  In  every  army  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as 
well  as  in  the  councils  of  the  kings,  you  would  find 
a  Tankerville.  They  were  at  Palestine  as  they  were 

at  Poitiers  and  Azincourt." 

156 


UP  THE  SEINE 

"In  these  walls  that  seem  to  defy  the  centuries, 
between  these  two  ruined  towers,  on  this  magnificent 
terrace  that  appears  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky;  on  the 
edge  of  these  menacing  cliffs,  under  these  old  oaks 
which  have  resisted  to  all  the  tempests  of  earth  and 
heaven,  there  have  passed,  there  have  been  drawn 
by  all  the  magic  power  of  glory,  of  ambition,  of  love, 
the  Comtes  of  Melun,  of  Tankerville,  of  Montgom- 
ery, the  Dunois,  the  Longuevilles,  the  d'Harcourts, 
and  the  Montmorencys."  Jules  Janin's  burst  of  elo- 
quence ends  in  a  triumphal  blast,  "Assuredly  the 
shores  of  the  Rhine  do  not  carry  nobler  stones  nor 
more  illustrious  ruins." 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  look  up  at  those  cliffs, 
thus  nobly  crowned,  and  not  feel  the  thrill  communi- 
cated by  so  brave  a  record.  What  modern  work  of 
fiction  could  equal  the  human  documents  to  be  torn 
from  the  annals  of  these  nine  centuries  of  heroic 
achievement? 

Even  as  our  boat  sweeps  us  on,  all  too  swiftly,  so 
does  history,  it  appears  to  me,  slur  the  very  pages 
we  should  con  with  far  more  passionate  interest 
than  a  mere  recital  of  dates  and  battles.  To  learn, 
for  example,  what  were  the  lives  of  those  countesses 
left  at  home  when  their  lords  went  off  crusading; 
what  their  occupations,  their  real  loves,  their  chosen 
amusements — how  would  such  a  veracious  account 
light  up  for  us  the  dimmed  mists  of  medieval  ex- 
istences! To  follow  the  political,  social,  and  mili- 
tary changes  which  those  keeps  have  outlined  from 

the  Crusades  to  the  Revolution,  one  would  have  to 

157 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

plunge  deep  into  the  whole  history  of  France.  Even 
then,  after  serious  study,  the  real  story  of  the  owners 
of  Tankerville  could  be  but  guessed  at;  their  true 
lives,  like  those  who  peopled  the  dark  chambers 
of  the  oubliettes,  still  shown,  are  an  unwritten  page, 
a  forgotten  mystery. 

Such  a  superb  mass  of  feudal  and  Renaissance 
structures  tempts  one  to  evoke,  at  least,  a  single 
scene  of  the  dimly  lighted  medieval  life,  to  dress  it, 
and  to  decorate  it. 

One  need  not  be  endowed  with  the  imagination  of 
a  poet  or  of  a  scene-maker  to  image  the  drift  toward 
the  terrace  of  a  young  and  lovely  Comtesse  de 
Tankerville.  She  would  send  her  gaze  up  and  down 
the  long  reaches  of  the  Seine;  she  might  hope  for  a 
sail  to  promise  news  of  a  husband  pursuing  the  one 
business,  save  the  chase,  a  noble  of  that  day  could 
engage  in — her  comte  would  be  at  war  or  crusading. 
In  the  latter  case,  having  started,  as  he  supposed,  to 
regain  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  in  reality  he  had  gone 
forth  on  the  journey  of  adventure  that  made  the 
Crusades  the  great  fashion  of  those  far-away  cen- 
turies. 

Then,  as  now,  the  Lady  of  Tankerville  would  see 
the  same  magic  beauty  before  her  as  we  are  looking 
out  upon;  she  would  see  this  river  of  light,  taking  a 
hundred  shades  at  noon,  at  dawn,  at  twilight;  there 
would  be  the  same  poplars,  slightly  shivering  in  the 
summer  wind;  there  would  be  the  ruddy  earth, 
across  the  cliff  to  her  right,  a  flame  lighting  up  the 
still  landscape;  and  there  would  be  the  forests,  dark, 

158 


UP  THE  SEINE 

green,  interminable,  riding  up  to  the  skies.  The 
lady,  quivering  like  the  poplars,  might  shiver  in  her 
turn,  and,  seeing  no  sail,  she  would  turn  to  seek  her 
rose-garden,  hidden  jealously  behind  the  frowning 
Norman  keep.  Her  ladies  would  be  there,  to  tempt 
her  to  forget;  one  would  hand  her  her  tapestry- 
frame;  another  would  suggest  a  reading  aloud  from 
Le  Roman  du  Ron;  but,  if  the  right  page  were  in 
the  circle,  it  would  be  his  voice  that  would  sing  the 
love-song  a  passing  troubadour  had  warbled  but  a 
few  nights  before  in  the  great  chateau  hall.  The 
page  would  never  consider  any  of  the  charms  of  his 
adored  mistress's  beauty  in  the  least  diminished 
because,  though  gowned,  girdled,  and  bejeweled 
like  a  queen,  she  was  what  we  should  call  not  clean. 
When  forks  were  as  yet  not  invented,  and  daintiest 
ladies  ate  with  their  fingers;  when  handkerchiefs 
were  not  in  use,  since  there  were  none — how  were  a 
lovely  lady's  hands  to  be  kept  clean? 

Some  two  centuries  later,  as  we  know,  that  char- 
meuse  Marguerite  de  Navarre  could  cry,  never 
dreaming  she  would  chiefly  be  mentioned  in  history 
by  this  illuminating  cry,  "Look  at  these  lovely  hands 
of  mine;  they  have  not  been  washed  for  eight  days, 
yet  I  will  wage  they  outshine  yours." 

French  courts  and  even  high-hung  rose-gardens 
must  wait  for  Diane  de  Poitiers  to  take  to  the  cold- 
water  English  tub,  and  for  pretty  Anne  of  Austria 
to  be  spoken  of  as  propre  etfort  nette. 

The  persistence  of  certain  of  the  great  French 
families  and  of  their  continuing  activities  is  proved 

159 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

by  a  critique  written  by  the  Vicomte  de  Voglie  before 
his  lamented  death. 

He  wrote  of  a  certain  book  that  "charmed  me." 
He  goes  so  far  as  to  quarrel  with  all  those  who  have 
not  read  it.  "I  flaunt  my  discovery.  I  am  amazed, 
I  am  indignant."  And  Vogue's  "indignation "  is  not 
softened  when  one  eminent  Frenchman  confesses 
"the  title  froze  me." 

The  title,  Quelques  Regards  sur  les  Lois  Sociales, 
would,  I  am  bound  to  admit,  be  as  a  cold  douche  to 
most  lovers  of  new  books.  It  would  rather  suggest  a 
possible  soporific  than  the  delight  our  clever  critic 
found  in  it.  Had  the  Due  d'Harcourt's  book  been 
baptized,  as  Vogue  suggests,  Un  Regard  a  Notre 
Temps,  each  one  of  us  would  have  longed  for  a  peep 
at  this  "Look  at  Our  Own  Time."  The  d'Har- 
courts,  among  so  many  of  the  great  French  families 
whose  history  is  a  part  of  the  story  of  Tankerville, 
are  among  those  whose  own  history  is  indeed  of 
"our  own  time."  As  Tankerville's  sons  had  been 
at  Agincourt,  so  was  Tankerville  itself  in  the  great 
war.  The  chateau  had  ceased  to  present,  since 
long  centuries,  any  serious  military  advantage  to 
its  possessors. 

Modern  progress,  however,  had  baptized  one  of  its 
successful  achievements  with  the  name  of  the  feudal 
castle. 

In  order  to  relieve  the  congestion  of  transports  and 
cargoes  constantly  accumulating  on  the  Havre  docks 
and  quays,  the  French  government  some  years  ago, 
at  the  cost  of  twenty-one  millions  of  francs,  built  a 

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UP  THE  SEINE 

canal  running  from  Havre  to  the  foot  of  the  hill 
known  as  Tankerville — the  cliff  on  whose  heights  are 
the  ruins  and  chateau. 

During  the  recent  war  this  canal  proved  to  be  of 
inestimable  service.  Canal-boats  could  carry  car- 
goes to  the  waiting  boats  and  transports  at  the 
entrance  of  the  canal  into  the  Seine,  or  the  canal- 
boats  could  themselves  be  towed  by  steam-tugs  the 
whole  length  of  the  river  as  far  as  Paris  itself. 

Such  a  center  of  utility  and  aid  to  French  military 
necessities  in  furnishing  better  facilities  for  hurrying 
forward  supplies,  coal,  and  clothing  to  the  French 
armies,  as  well  as  stocking  Paris  itself  with  food  and 
coal,  was  a  fitting  target  for  German  destructive 
energies.  This  canal  entrance  into  the  Seine  was 
bombed  again  and  again  by  audacious  German  avi- 
ators. The  damage  done  seems  to  have  been  in- 
finitesimal. The  canal-boats  continued  to  pass 
along  the  smooth,  even  waters,  laden  with  their 
precious  cargoes,  to  discharge  them  or  to  proceed 
onward  to  Rouen  or  Havre  with  no  more  con- 
cern than  though  the  "birds"  were  birds  indeed, 
with  no  death-dealing  horrors  in  their  clutches. 

One  of  the  most  daring  of  these  German  flights 
was  that  of  an  enemy  aviator  who  conceived  a  very 
original  manner  of  attack  on  Havre. 

Havre,  because  of  its  ocean  currents,  its  high 
winds,  and  also  because  of  the  careful,  sustained 
watchfulness  of  its  winged  air  fleet,  from  the  very 
beginning  of  the  war  had  been  found  by  the  Germans 
to  be  almost  impossible  of  successful  attack  from  the 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

skies.  Havre's  lights  along  the  shores,  its  camps  on 
the  heights  of  its  hills,  above  the  city,  and  those 
above  Harfleur  had  burned  with  continuous  brill- 
iancy for  four  long  years,  as  though  in  signal  defiance 
to  German  prowess. 

One  German  aviator,  however,  succeeded  in  land- 
ing his  bomb. 

Swooping  down  on  the  one  Paris  night  express- 
train  after  it  left  the  Rouen  station,  the  clever 
aviator  foiled  any  night-watchers  of  the  skies  by 
flying  as  low  as  was  consistent  with  safety.  He  flew 
just  over  the  express-train.  The  noise  of  the  latter 
deadened  the  whir  of  the  aviator's  motor.  He  kept 
his  machine  unvaryingly  just  above  the  engine  of  the 
train. 

On  reaching  the  Havre  station,  as  the  passengers 
alighted,  the  deadly  bombs  were  dropped.  A  terrible 
explosion  followed,  with  the  passengers  just  alighting 
from  the  train  as  the  chief  victims  of  this  audacious, 
cruel  venture. 


We  were  passing  a  vast  green  carpet.  This  wide 
stretch  of  lush  grass  is  known  as  Le  Marais  Vernier. 
The  diking  of  the  Seine  has  rescued  this  valuable 
pasture-land,  to  which  thousands  of  cattle  are  sent 
yearly  to  be  fattened.  These  fine,  moving  groups 
spot  the  landscape  with  their  red-and-white,  black- 
and-white  notes  of  color.  The  diking  of  the  Seine 
lines  we  have  been  following,  for  some  miles  past, 

162 


UP  THE  SEINE 

has  added  fat  pastures  to  the  Seine  shores  and  mill- 
ions of  wealth  to  France. 

There  is  at  least  once  a  year  a  treacherous  trick  of 
the  Seine  tides  that  has  also  lost  thousands  to  the 
country. 

No  contrast  could  be  greater  than  the  spectacle 
presented  by  the  fury  of  Le  Mascaret,  the  dreaded 
tidal-wave  that  sweeps  up  from  the  sea  each  year 
in  early  autumn,  and  this  exquisite  pastoral  picture. 

Here  at  Quillebeuf  and  its  near  neighbor,  Ville- 
quier,  on  the  opposite  bank,  the  Seine  shores  seemed 
to  reach  their  very  apogee  of  vernal  loveliness.  The 
river  wound  in  and  around  low  hills,  or  meandered 
lazily  past  low  shores  that  carried  the  eye  far  in- 
land to  bosky  groves,  to  tree-trimmed  fields  and  to 
elms  and  willows  that  came  to  the  water's  edges  as 
though  seeking  to  mirror  their  graceful  shapes. 

One  might  cry  with  Lamartine: 

Montez  done,  flotlez  done,  roulez,  volez,  vent,  flamme, 
Oiseaux,  vagues,  rayons,  vapours,  parfums  et  voixl 

Terre,  exhale  ton  souffle!    Homme,  il&ve  ton  dme! 
Montez,  flottes,  roulez,  accomplissez  vos  lois! 

For  out  of  the  vast  silence,  the  delicate  stillness  of 
this  perfect  marriage  of  tones,  colors,  shapes  of 
shapely  hills,  and  grace  of  winding  river,  the  earth 
did  indeed  seem  to  exhale  its  living  breath,  accom- 
plishing its  laws  in  forms  of  beauty. 

Yet  it  is  in  this,  the  very  bosom  of  this  tender 
landscape,  Nature,  in  the  mystery  of  her  inexo- 
rable laws,  has  chosen  as  the  site  of  one  of  her  merci- 
less furies. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Up  from  the  sea  there  sweeps  each  autumn  the 
mounting  of  huge  waves.  On  and  on,  as  Le  Mas- 
caret  rushes  past  the  reaches  of  the  Seine,  it  seems  to 
gather  in  strength  and  in  might  of  volume.  Grasses 
along  the  river-bend  shiver,  are  bent,  are  uprooted, 
are  swept  along  by  the  remorseless  flood  as  though 
they  were  paper.  Tree-trunks  are  torn  away  and 
canoes  or  rowing-boats  are  churned  to  powder. 
Woe  betide  the  sail-boat  caught  in  the  angry,  tem- 
pestuous flood!  No  man  may  live  in  a  small  boat 
on  that  roaring,  rushing  fury  of  waters. 

Along  the  .Quillebeuf  and  Villequier  quays  this 
curious  tidal-wave  reaches  its  height  of  violence. 
The  stout  walls  built  below  the  Quillebeuf  quays 
are  to  protect  the  town  from  the  lashing,  mountain- 
ous waves. 

Innumerable  have  been  the  shipwrecks  and  the 
maritime  losses  occasioned  by  this  destructive  flood. 

One  tragedy  is  still  remembered  with  pitying 
horror. 

On  the  low  shores  of  the  little  town  of  Villequier — 
one  we  were  to  visit  on  the  morrow — you  will  see  a 
certain  cozy,  homelike  front  of  a  villa,  now  famous. 
In  the  green  arbor  to  the  right,  overhanging  the 
river,  the  man  France  believes  to  have  been  her 
greatest  poet — Victor  Hugo — has  sat,  looking  out 
upon  a  scene  peculiarly  attuned  to  his  genius.  For 
the  very  river  and  landscape  must  have  seemed  to 
that  "king  of  poets"  to  have  been  fashioned  to  meet 
and  satisfy  the  needs  of  his  giant  intellect.  There 
is  wildness  and  yet  a  grave  grace  in  the  outlook; 

164 


UP  THE  SEINE 

there  is  also  a  singular,  rare  sense  of  isolation,  of 
achieved  separateness  from  intrusion  from  too  curi- 
ous worlds. 

In  that  villa  happy  summers  were  spent  by  the 
poet,  who  gathered  there  his  family  about  him  in 
the  days  when  Hugo's  fame  rested  on  so  sure  a 
foundation,  his  restless,  tempestuous  genius  could 
give  itself  over  to  the  calmer  joys  of  meditation  and 
the  untroubled  delights  of  versification. 

Out  from  the  green  arbor,  one  late,  gray  Septem- 
ber day,  there  went  forth  for  an  afternoon  on  the 
river,  into  the  boat  moored  to  the  landing,  the 
poet's  daughter,  Mine.  Vacquerie  (Mile.  Leopoldine 
Hugo),  her  husband,  her  ten-year-old  child,  and 
their  oarsman. 

The  river  makes  a  sharp  bend  below  the  river- 
bottom,  to  the  right.  One  cannot  see  the  river 
beyond  the  bend. 

With  the  suddenness  of  a  cataclysmic  fate  the 
pleasure-seekers  saw,  with  horror  at  first  paralyzing 
effort,  the  inrush,  the  mountainous  sweep  around 
the  river-bend  of  the  dreaded  Mascaret.  There  was 
no  warning  given.  The  tidal- wave  came  with  the 
fury  and  unexpectedness  of  an  elemental  force. 

Row,  oarsman!  Pray,  dear  woman!  Clutch  your 
child  to  your  bosom  whence  it  came!  For  neither 
superhuman  efforts  to  surmount  that  tossing,  up- 
rising wall  of  sea,  high  indeed  as  a  wall,  higher  than 
the  hills,  nor  prayers  to  an  unheeding  Heaven,  can 
avail.  The  waters  coming  from  the  sea  have  the 
sea's  jealous  love  of  booty,  and  as  they  met  the  frail 

12  165 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

bark  and  found  therein  their  prey,  with  a  single 
engulfing  embrace,  husband  and  wife  and  child  and 
oarsman  were  swept  to  the  gray,  mighty  arms  of  the 
risen  tide. 

Under  the  weeping  willows,  the  recovered  bodies 
of  these  victims  of  La  Barre  sleep  their  eternal  sleep 
in  the  Villequier  cemetery. 

This  La  Barre  or  Le  Mascaret  being  one  of  the 
costless  spectacles  of  nature,  if  viewed  from  a  safe 
vantage-point,  Parisians,  ever  in  search  of  a  novelty 
to  whip  to  sensational  excitation  their  fatigued  sen- 
sibilities, will  come  from  afar  to  watch,  through  a 
monocle  or  an  opera-glass.  Delighted  cries,  excla- 
mations, rise  up  from  the  shores  as  the  angry  waters 
send  their  hissing  spray  skyward.  To  have  ex- 
perienced an  agreeable  shudder  was  worth  the 
journey  from  Paris — in  pre-war  days. 


in 

At  each  sweep  of  the  river — and  the  Seine  has  as 
many  turnings  as  a  capricious  woman — at  each  one 
of  these  twists  of  the  waterway  a  village,  a  spire,  a 
chateau  now  quickened  curiosity. 

A  Norman  church  tower  fronting  a  great  sweep  of 
plain  is  the  church's  sentinel  guarding  Quillebeuf. 
The  tower  has  the  sturdy  lines  of  its  Norman  an- 
cestry. It  stands  forth,  overlooking  a  thousand  cattle 
below  it,  grazing  in  the  lush  grass  as  though  its  duty 
were  to  bless  cattle  rather  than  to  baptize  pilots. 

This  ceremony  of  baptizing  pilots  with  the  Quille- 

166 


UP  THE  SEINE 

beuf  waters  has  been  a  tradition,  a  rite,  an  unwrit- 
ten law  among  Normandy  mothers  for  long  cen- 
turies. That  gallant,  impulsive  King  Henri  IV, 
whose  nature  and  temperament  fitted  him,  above 
almost  all  other  French  monarchs,  to  govern  French- 
men— had  a  way  of  putting  his  seal  on  towns  and 
villages.  It  is  the  way  of  imaginative  men,  who  see 
farther  ahead  than  their  neighbors. 

Henri  IV,  having  seen  possibilities  in  Quillebeuf 
no  one  else  had  divined,  enlarged  the  town,  sur- 
rounded it  with  fortifications,  and  even  wished  to 
christen  it  Henricopolis.  The  town  has  shrunk 
since  that  fine  effort  to  render  it  important.  The 
fortifications  are  gone,  but  a  law  which  the  inven- 
tive king  promulgated  exists  to  this  day. 

Henri  IV  decreed  that  only  pilots  born  in  Quille- 
beuf could  be  given  a  license  for  pilotage  on  the 
Seine.  Ambitious  mothers-to-be  of  pilots,  therefore, 
for  centuries  have  been  leaving  farms  and  villages 
and  have  come  to  the  bon  port  of  Quillebeuf  to  be 
confined.  The  child  must  be  baptized  with  the 
water  of  the  Puits  du  Gard.  This  license  was  ac- 
corded as  a  privilege  to  the  town. 

The  eleventh-century  Romanesque  ornamentation 
of  the  tower  has  thus  looked  down  on  a  long  pro- 
cession of  infant  pilots.  Thus  do  age-old  traditions, 
laws,  and  customs  bind  modern  France  to  her  past. 
And  fluent  writers  and  easy-thinking  philosophers 
have  been  prophesying,  during  these  past  four  and  a 
half  eventful  years,  how  radically  France  and  French- 
men were  to  be  changed,  were  to  be  newly  born,  were 

167 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

to  become  endowed  with  a  fresh  pair  of  spiritual, 
moral,  and  mental  wings  that  were  to  send  them 
flying  to  an  unknown  zenith  of  hitherto  unattained 
heights! 

A  race  that  has  two  thousand  years  behind  it  is 
not  radically  changed  by  a  four  and  a  half  years' 
war — any  more  than  its  enemy  across  the  Rhine  has 
been  reborn  to  a  better  nature  or  to  a  loftier  mo- 
rality, since  Csesar  and  Strabo  found  them  as  cruel, 
as  vindictive,  and  as  savage  as  they  have  proved 
themselves  to  be;  they  also  have  carefully  preserved 
their  ancient  essential  characteristics. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    CROSSING    AT    QUILLEBEUF 

CONFESS  to  having  approached  the  quays  at 
•••  Quillebeuf  with  a  certain  sensible  rising  of  the 
pulse.  I  was  about  to  turn  traitor.  Savoring  of 
treachery  it  seemed  indeed  thus  to  abandon  the 
voyage  up  the  Seine,  in  the  slow  but  agreeably 
sluggish  little  steamer,  and  to  take  to  the  road. 

Our  treachery  was,  however,  to  wear  the  miti- 
gating aspect  of  a  minor  crime.  If  we  left  the  boat 
at  Quillebeuf  it  was  with  the  assured  hope  of 
retaking  it  at  Caudebec. 

To  those  hurried  travelers  who  fear  to  lose  step 
with  the  modern  movement  unless  they  enter  a 
country  or  a  town  at  a  hundred-horse-power  speed 
I  will  impart  a  very  open  secret.  To  view  some  of 
the  richest  jewels  starred  along  the  Seine  shores, 
Quillebeuf  and  her  opposite  shore  provide  a  means  of 
crossing  the  river.  It  is  at  this  point  the  motorist 
coming  from  the  Calvados  (Normandy)  country — 
from  Trouville  or  Deauville — finds  his  first  ferry. 
There  is  a  second  ferry  at  Duclair.  For  the  de- 
lectable enjoyment  of  visiting  the  peculiarly  interest- 
ing features  centered  about  Lillebonne  and  Caudebec 
this  river  passage  at  Quillebeuf  is  preferably  the 
chosen  one. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

To  do  even  cursory  justice  to  Lillebonne,  Caude- 
bec,  Saint- Wandrille,  and  Jumieges — one  must  indeed 
take  to  the  road.  The  approach  by  car  to  each  one 
of  these  charming  and  inexhaustibly  rich  sites  reveals 
a  hundred  wonderful  surprises  and  imparts  innu- 
merable sensations.  There  are  road  beauties  to  be 
remembered  a  whole  lifetime;  there  are  descents  on 
architectural  and  historic  treasures  that  take  on  the 
aspect  of  fairylike  apparitions — so  unexpectedly  do 
they  emerge  from  tree-groves  or  along  golden-hued 
fields. 

As  I  sat  on  the  Quillebeuf  wharf,  it  occurred  to 
me,  among  the  above  reflections,  there  were  two  grim- 
visaged  possibilities  which  might  spoil  our  plan  of  a 
descent  upon  Lillebonne  in  time  for  catching  the  boat 
at  Caudebec.  Were  the  car  not  to  meet  us;  were 
the  bac  —  the  ferry-boat,  plying  between  Quille- 
beuf and  the  opposite  shore  not  to  be  true  to  its 
advertised  hour,  our  fate  would  be  sealed;  there 
would  be  two  full  days  that  must  be  squandered  in 
exploring  La  Seine  Inferieure  in  lieu  of  reaching 
Rouen  that  very  night.  The  Seine  boat  starts  from 
Havre  only  on  alternate  days. 

Who  ever  succeeded  in  life  who  was  daunted  by 
the  fear  of  encountering  chances?  The  true  con- 
queror in  the  battle  for  prizes  is  surely  he  who  counts 
chances  as  sign-posts  pointing  the  way  onward  to 
the  right  goal. 

Delivered  of  this  questionably  profound  observa- 
tion, I  proceeded  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
philosopher  who  was  more  worthy  than  I  to  wear  the 

170 


A  CROSSING  AT  QUILLEBEUF 

mantle  of  any  one  of  the  minor  Greek  sages.  This 
calm  observer  of  life's  annoyances,  and  also  this 
contented  recipient  of  its  balanced  pleasures,  as  I 
was  to  find,  was  seated  beside  me  on  the  wooden 
benches  of  the  Quillebeuf  quays. 

I  had  just  been  reading  an  enthusiastic  account  of 
Quillebeuf's  former  attractions.  As  wise  a  man  as 
Jules  Janin  was  asserting  that  this  dull,  silent,  dead- 
and-alive  little  town  was  "a  town  quite  apart  among 
Norman  towns;  it  had  its  own  customs,  its  manners, 
its  dances,  its  poetry,  its  accent."  I  looked  along 
the  long  rows  of  the  tidy  but  expressionless  houses. 
What  and  where  were  the  characteristic  signs  to 
prove  it  "a  town  apart"?  Shut  blinds,  tightly 
closed  doors,  and  silent  streets:  such  an  aspect  might 
prove  death,  possibly  coming  decay,  but  life — of 
semblance  of  life  there  was  but  this  human  wreck 
beside  me. 

Bowed  with  age,  the  old  man's  cheeks  showed  an 
interesting  combination  of  sea-weather  tan  and  the 
deep  reds  burned  in  by  the  Normandy  sun  and  tinted 
by  Calvados  applejack.  His  speech,  it  is  true, 
proved  a  certain  unique  linguistic  peculiarity. 
Having  lost  his  whole  frontal  dental  apparatus,  his 
words  came  with  a  whistling  accompaniment  due 
to  two  teeth  that  "bit  opposite." 

The  old  man's  spirit,  however,  was  superior  to 
these  evidences  of  the  cruelties  of  age.  His  soul 
seemed  as  serene  as  was  the  serenely  flowing  Seine. 
He  had  confessed,  with  modest  pride,  to  having  been 
one  of  the  infant  pilots  held  over  the  Puits  du  Card. 

171 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"Cetait  le  bon  temps,  Madame,  those  were  the 
good  old  times,  when  customs  were  observed. 
Who  respects  them  now?  Ah  well!  the  world  pro- 
gresses. France  has  shown  us  that.  Who  could 
have  thought  we  could  beat  the  Germans?  Ha!  ha! 
we  beat  them — and  I've  seen  them,  prisoners,  going 
down-stream." 

The  laugh  was  a  cackle.  But  it  had  in  it,  like  old 
bells  jangling  out  of  tune,  the  note  of  triumph. 

On  my  querying  whether  Quillebeuf  was  as  dead 
as  it  looked,  couched,  it  is  true,  in  polite  phrase,  the 
contented  sage  replied: 

"Mais  oui,  Madame,  Quillebeuf  is  dead  indeed,  if 
you  wish — in  winter — yes.  We  are  so  far  from  the 
great  world.  But  in  summer — "  The  thin  old  arm 
slipped  out  through  the  ragged,  cuffless  shirt-sleeve, 
to  point  triumphantly  to  the  vehicles  below  us, 
alined  along  the  paved  bank  leading  to  the  ferry 
landing.  Two  cars,  a  char-a-bancs  laden  with  grunt- 
ing pigs  and  a  hay-cart,  were  the  objects  to  prove 
the  alluring  features  of  the  summer  season. 

"See — are  we  not  gay,  in  summer?"  the  con- 
tented philosopher  continued.  "All  the  world  comes 
here  to  cross  over.  One  is  never  alone,  once  June  is 


come." 


The  smile  that  illumined  the  wrinkled  face  was 
beautiful;  even  the  absence  of  all  teeth  save  two, 
and  the  pink  cavern  the  widely  parted  lips  disclosed, 
could  not  destroy  the  beauty  of  the  soul  that  irradi- 
ated the  face  of  this  kindly  creature.  Here  was  one 

who,  as  life  was  slipping  away,  could  yet  glean  happi- 

173 


A  CROSSING  AT  QUILLEBEUF 

ness  from  simple  pleasures.  He  was  content  to  look 
on  at  life's  show. 

I  had  learned  my  lesson.  It  was  one,  it  is  true, 
all  the  easier  of  acceptance  and  of  possible  assimila- 
tion, since  both  the  car  and  the  bac  were  on  time. 

"Far  from  the  great  world!" 

The  phrase  stuck.  On  the  brief  crossing,  across 
the  sunlit  river,  the  words  took  on  an  ever-growing 
importance,  a  deeper  significance.  This  voyage — 
an  inland  voyage,  as  the  immortal  Stevenson  bap- 
tized this  floating  between  inland  shores  and  mead- 
ows— these  still,  seemingly  lifeless  towns,  this 
sluggish  provincial  French  life — how  remote  were  all 
these  from  the  great  centers  of  France's  activities! 
As  in  Honfleur,  as  at  Harfleur,  at  Tankerville,  and 
over  yonder  in  vanishing  Quillebeuf,  one  had  the 
feeling  of  having  left  modern  France;  of  having 
stepped  back  into  that  older,  more  picturesque, 
historic  France  of  the  Bourbons  and  of  Napoleon. 
Yet,  as  every  streamlet  and  modest  river  running 
into  the  Seine  swells  it  to  the  grandeur  of  the  wide, 
nobly  flowing  stream,  so  does  each  one  of  these  ob- 
scure, forgotten  little  towns  and  villages  prove  they 
pour  their  contributory  energies  and  the  fruits  of 
their  laborious  industry  to  feed  the  mighty  forces 
we  know  as  France. 

France  herself,  and  with  firmer  conviction  than 
ever  since  the  recent  war,  will  boldly  affirm  the  power 
of  these  forces.  She  is  now,  since  victory  has  come 
to  her,  serenely  conscious  of  leading  the  world.  All 
the  world  recognizes  the  genius  there  is  and  has  been 

173 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE   BATTLEFIELDS 

in  France  for  the  doing  of  great  things.  But  France 
at  times  forgets,  with  superb  disdain,  the  fact  there 
are  other  geniuses  demonstrating  their  renovating 
activities  elsewhere. 

I  remember  some  years  ago  asking  one  of  the 
cleverest  among  clever  Frenchmen  why  France 
showed  so  little  intelligent  curiosity  in  either  the 
intellectual  or  in  the  artistic  achievements  of  other 
nations.  "There  is  the  best  of  reasons  for  this  in- 
difference. Nothing  of  importance  has  been  con- 
tributed either  to  art  or  to  literature,  since  the 
Renaissance,  save  what  France  and  Frenchmen  have 
given  to  the  world!"  was  the  self-satisfied  answer. 

Pray  Heaven  her  light  may  continue  to  shine! 
One  star,  even  of  the  first  magnitude,  does  not,  how- 
ever, make  the  stellar  universe.  To  some  of  these 
lower,  more  earthly  luminaries  France  appears  to  be 
slowly  lifting  her  glances;  with  her  genius  of  classi- 
fication, each  star,  in  time,  will  be  discovered  as 
influences  either  to  be  conciliated  or  feared — as 
rivals. 


CHAPTER  XI 


LILLEBONNE 


across  the  river,  we  were  soon  seated  in  the 
waiting  car. 

In  an  astonishingly  short  whirl  of  the  wheels  we 
were  dipping  in  among  low  hills  to  the  valley  in 
which  Lillebonne  rests.  The  entrance  to  the  town 
was  disappointingly  commonplace.  Its  dull-faced 
houses  and  the  commercial-traveler-looking  hotel 
must  surely,  we  thought,  have  been  built  yesterday. 

The  townsfolk  appeared  to  be  as  uninteresting  as 
was  the  town  itself,  to  have  fashioned  themselves, 
it  seems,  on  its  dulled,  sleepy  air. 

In  seeking  our  goal,  one  street  only,  La  rue  Cesa- 
rine,  lured  us  to  follow  its  windings;  its  name  at 
least  savored  of  that  older  world  whose  interesting 
survivals  we  had  come  to  investigate.  Though  the 
street's  name  had  the  right  classic  ring,  the  thor- 
oughfare did  not  lead  us  to  the  right  spot. 

At  last  our  car  brought  us  close  to  a  deep  hollow. 
Within  the  curves  an  unmistakable  amphitheater 
and  its  grassy  gradients  proclaimed  that  here  was 

175 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  old  Roman  Theater — the  magnet  that  had 
drawn  us. 

An  iron  railing  separates  the  too  curious  investi- 
gator from  the  grass-grown  inclosure.  There  are, 
however,  certain  simple  ways  of  obtaining  entrance 
into  almost  any  forbidden  paradise.  The  cool, 
grassy  seats  wooed  us.  We,  in  turn,  wooed  a  genial, 
yielding  guardian.  Soon  we  were  the  other  side  of 
the  locked  gate  and  were  comfortably  ensconced  on 
the  odorous  grasses,  where,  centuries  ago,  Julio- 
bona's  gay  Roman  world  brought  its  slaves  and  the 
slaves  brought  cushions. 

In  our  time,  and  from  our  more  modest  seats,  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  rebuilding  to  be  done.  We  must 
first  of  all  try  to  enlarge  the  theater  to  its  former 
dimensions.  The  guide-books  and  works  on  arche- 
ology will  give  you  the  exact  measurements  of  the 
amphitheater,  the  Cena,  the  grand  cordon  circulaire, 
as  also  they  will  describe  the  eight  cages  and  the 
seven  vomitories.  It  is  still  possible  to  trace  the 
position  and  place  of  the  cages  and  vomitories,  in 
spite  of  Nature's  triumphant  success  in  growing 
grass,  trees,  and  shrubs  to  recover  her  domain. 

It  was,  I  fear,  the  charm  of  evoking  the  deco- 
rative and  the  human  aspects  of  this  world  that 
formerly  crowded  this  now  deserted  Roman  center 
of  cruelty  and  of  gaiety,  rather  than  its  more  purely 
architectural  character,  that  I,  for  one,  found  ab- 
sorbing. 

The  noon  sun  must  have  shone  as  brilliantly  and 
softly  two  thousand  years  ago  as  it  did  now,  on  those 

176 


LILLEBONNE 

three  thousand  spectators,  who  shouted,  applauded, 
and  cursed,  in  all  the  different  tongues  of  as  mixed 
a  world  as  peopled  the  theater. 

This  Juliobona — named  after  that  famous  and 
infamous  Julia  of  the  Roman  days — was  a  reflecting 
mirror  of  Rome  itself.  Far  north  from  Italy  as  it 
must  have  seemed  to  a  Roman  noble,  its  importance 
as  a  military  center  had  its  retroactive  effect  on  the 
city.  If  all  roads  led  to  Rome,  Juliobona's  roads  led 
to  Rouen,  to  Harfleur,  to  Paris  via  Caudebec,  to 
Dreux,  and  to  Evreux. 

Repeople  this  theater;  attempt  to  recreate  the 
scene  on  the  Cena  below,  and  one  could  image  the 
spectacle  that  could  cheat  Roman  eyes  and  senses 
into  believing  that  their  lost  Rome  was  transplanted 
to  this  Gallic  center.  Gladiators,  musicians,  actors, 
and  acrobats — all  were  here  to  play  out  their  part, 
to  earn  praise,  or  to  finish,  spectacularly  as  often 
as  not,  in  death.  Lions,  tigers,  bulls,  monkeys, 
panthers  were  brought  from  African  wilds  to  con- 
tinue the  slaughter,  when  a  burning  of  Christian 
martyrs  had  satiated  the  appetite  for  human  sacri- 
fice. Dancers  would  appear  as  God  had  made  women 
when  the  Garden  of  Eden  was  the  rendezvous  of 
innocence. 

Chairs,  facsimiles  of  those  elaborately  carved 
seats  you  may  still  sit  in,  at  Athens,  at  the  Theater 
of  Dionysius,  would  be  filled  by  a  luxuriously  cos- 
tumed crowd  of  aristocrats.  The  same  play  of 
human  passions  would  be  found  fronting  the  mimic 
stage  as  fill  the  seats  of  any  twentieth-century 

177 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

operatic  performance  or  a  race-meeting.  "Women 
ruined  their  husbands  and  sought  lovers  evil  enough 
to  give  them  precious  stuffs,  sumptuous  litters, 
beautiful  slaves,  well  combed  and  groomed;  above 
all  else,  pearls  and  precious  stones  as  superb  as  those 
of  Mithridates " — with  such  women  as  these  were 
the  now  empty  seats  filled.  Read  for  "litters," 
"automobiles,"  and  for  "slaves,"  "servants,"  which 
even  the  richest  of  husbands  or  lovers  can  hardly 
in  our  day  obtain,  and  how  much  has  our  great 
world  changed  in  two  thousand  years. 

For  further  splendor  in  the  scene  of  that  older  day 
there  would  be  the  superbly  togaed  Romans,  the 
centurions  in  their  glittering  armor,  the  brilliantly 
costumed  Gauls  in  those  startiingly  vivid  colors  in 
which  they  delighted.  From  their  necks  and  arms 
would  flash  the  sparkle  of  richly  chased  necklaces 
and  armlets,  proving  to  Greek  artisans  the  genius  of 
the  Gallic  worker  in  metals.  There  would  be  Lib- 
yans, Assyrians,  Egyptian  decorators  whose  skull- 
flattened  profiles  would  recall  those  painted  on  the 
tombs  of  their  country.  There  would  be  Greek 
hetserse  with  their  statuesque  beauty,  and  the  Greek 
philosopher  -  tutor  who  instructed  Roman  lads  in 
knowledge  of  Greek  arts  and  letters.  Rome  trans- 
ported her  world  of  slaves  as  easily  as  she  did  her 
statues  and  mosaics. 

Each  and  every  phase  through  which  Rome  itself 
passed,  in  its  five  hundred  years  of  life,  from  its  days 
of  Csesarean  splendor  to  its  decay,  would  be  reflected 
on  the  Cena  of  this  remote  Gallo-Roman  theater. 

178 


LILLEBONNE 

From  the  gladiatorial  shows  of  pure  strength,  the 
spectacle  would  change  to  setting  forth  a  faint 
imitation  of  a  Neronian  massacring  of  Christian 
martyrs. 

A  single  statue  now  in  the  Rouen  Museum  re- 
mains of  all  the  world  of  statues  which  once  adorned 
the  upper  columns  that  curved  about  the  topmost 
gallery  of  the  theater.  This  beautiful  statue  was 
found  in  the  ruins  of  the  Baths  not  far  from  the 
theater.  Some  vestiges  of  paintings  were  there  also 
excavated.  Coins,  bits  of  armor,  and  jewelry  were 
the  reward  of  the  researches  made  in  the  beginning 
of  the  nineteenth  century. 

All  that  was  left  for  eyes  to  see  of  the  splendor  of 
this  Old  World  was  the  goldening  glow  of  noon  sun- 
rays  lighting  each  blade  of  grass  to  be  a  torch  of 
brightness.  Warmth  and  color  and  perfume,  sun 
and  grasses,  would  still  yield  you  these,  One  could 
picture  indeed  the  great  scene;  and  now  there  was 
only  a  wilderness  of  shrubs,  a  tree  growing  here,  a 
daisy  there,  out  of  the  cage  through  which  lions  have 
roared — and  the  world  of  Rome  seemed  indeed  dead 
these  two  thousand  years. 

Yet  if  stones  could  speak,  these  rocky  hewn 
gradients  would  tell  us  their  story.  And  as  they 
told  their  story,  they  would  smile — smile  at  the 
fatuous  vanity  of  man — of  Frenchmen,  of  historians 
who  can  see  these  eloquent  reminders  of  all  that 
Rome  did  for  France  and  for  French  character,  and 
yet,  while  every  Frenchman  delights  in  calling  him- 
self a  "Latin,"  he  takes  little  account  of  how  much 

179 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  the  Roman  there  is  in  the  make-up  of  his  char- 
acter. 

Emerson  tells  us  that,  "As  the  granite  comes  to 
the  surface  and  towers  into  the  highest  mountains, 
and  if  we  dig  down,  we  find  it  below  the  superficial 
strata;  so  in  all  the  details  of  our  domestic  and  civil 
life  is  hidden  the  elemental  reality,  which  ever  and 
anon  comes  to  the  surface  and  forms  the  grand  men 
who  are  leaders  and  examples,  rather  than  the  com- 
panions, of  the  race.  The  granite  is  curiously  con- 
cealed under  a  thousand  formations  and  surfaces, 
under  fertile  soils,  and  grasses  and  flowers,  under 
well-manured  arable  fields,  and  large  towns  and 
cities,  but  it  makes  the  foundation  of  these,  and  is 
always  indicating  its  presence  by  slight  but  sure 
signs.'* 

The  "granite"  in  the  French  character — that 
power  of  resistance,  that  heroic  splendor  in  active 
warfare  as  in  patience  under  suffering,  that  quality 
of  grim  courage  that  has  taken  the  whole  world  off 
its  feet,  in  startled  surprise,  during  this  war  was 
above  all  other  wars  one  to  try  men's  elemental 
capacities. 

I  find  this  "granite"  in  the  Frenchman  to  be  the 
Roman  deposit.  That  stern  hardening,  that  inflex- 
ible determination  that  voiced  itself  in  the  four 
laconic  words,  "Us  ne  passeront  pas"  ("They  shall 
not  pass"),  at  Verdun,  and  before  Paris,  in  1918 — 
surely  that  is  the  voice  that  echoes  from  the  tongues 
of  Plutarch's  men,  the  voice  that  Macaulay  in  his 
Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  has  made  musical.  There  is 

180 


LJLLEBONNE 

all  the  stretch  of  two  thousand  years  between  the 
heroic  deeds  of  those  immortal  heroes  of  Roman  days 
and  of  the  poilus  who  held  the  citadel  of  Verdun, 
and  who,  for  the  second  time,  drove  the  German 
barbarians  across  the  Marne. 

These  soldiers  of  France  and  their  chiefs  are  cast 
indeed  in  the  Roman  mold;  the  granite  has  come 
through  the  more  superficial  surface  again  to  show 
its  stern,  inflexible  strength. 

There  are  other  sites  in  France  far  more  instinct 
with  what  we  may  call  Roman  feeling,  Roman  pre- 
dilection for  grandeur,  than  that  which  Lillebonne 
can  offer.  The  Maison  Carree  at  Nimes,  the  Thea- 
ter at  Orange,  and  at  Autun,  Caesar's  capital — the 
Augustodumum  of  the  Romans — at  Autun  there 
are  still  uprising  the  imposing,  symmetrical  Fortes 
d'Arroux  and  St.-Andre  whose  rechristening  only 
emphasizes  the  essential  Roman  characteristics  of 
these  two  beautiful  examples  of  Roman  art  in 
building. 

The  Theater  at  Orange  has  been  so  Parisianized 
that  it  can  be  counted  as  holding  first  place  among 
all  the  vestiges  of  antiquity  we  have  modernized 
—modernized  by  frequentation  rather  than  by 
restoration;  for  it  has  been  consecrated  anew  to 
our  own  life  and  time  by  the  frequent  representa- 
tions of  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  whose  open-air  per- 
formances in  this  classic  setting,  with  the  celestial 
lighting  of  moon  and  stars,  with  the  mystic  back- 
ground of  dimmed  trees  and  blurred  foliage,  set  the 
scene  for  "Phedre"  and  "(Edipus  Rex,"  with  an 

13  181 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Athenian  beauty,  thus  inspiring  the  actors  them- 
selves to  communicate  to  their  roles  the  finest 
accents  of  poignant  actuality. 

In  Paris,  at  the  Hotel  Cluny,  you  will  raise  your 
eyes  and  head  in  your  attempt  to  grasp  the  magni- 
tude of  the  plan  of  the  Roman  Thermes  (Baths), 
whose  dimensions,  were  no  other  proofs  left  us, 
would  help  to  paint  for  us  the  mental  picture  of 
the  scale  of  magnificence  on  which  Romans  in 
Lutetia  (the  Roman  name  for  Paris)  fashioned  their 
lives,  in  this  country  of  their  exile. 

If  stones  could  speak,  these  Roman  ruins  would 
give  us  an  illuminating  record  of  all  Rome  brought 
to  France  during  its  five  hundred  years  of  occupa- 
tion, and  all  it  left  behind  it,  in  influences  as  inde- 
structible as  are  some  of  its  monuments. 


ii 

Let  us  lift  a  corner  of  Caesar's  tent  and  look  upon 
the  faces  of  the  Romans  who  followed  the  conqueror 
into  Gaul. 

First  of  all  one  would  be  struck  with  the  luxury, 
the  magnificence,  displayed  in  the  adornment  of  the 
great  Roman's  surroundings.  Suetonius  tells  us  that 
Csesar  carried  with  him  parquets  for  his  tents,  or 
the  houses  (cedificioe)  which  he  "requisitioned"  (in 
our  modern  phrase) — parquets  of  mosaic  and  mar- 
quetry. On  his  tables — for  there  were  always  two 
— one  for.  the  richer  Romans,  his  guests,  and  an- 
other to  which  the  more  prominent  provincials  were 

182 


LILLEBONNE 

bidden  to  take  their  places — on  these,  his  tables,  sil- 
ver and  gold  ornaments  were  set  forth  in  abundance. 
Sober  though  he  was  himself — all  great  conquerors 
practise  that  virtue — Caesar's  table  was  as  sumptu- 
ous as  though  he  were  in  Rome.  He  knew  the  value 
of  objective  effect;  he  understood  the  psychic  in- 
fluences produced  through  the  mere  art  of  seeing. 
All  these  and  all  his  other  discreetly  managed  more 
or  less  theatrical  effects  were  arranged  with  a  grave, 
far-reaching  purpose;  those  who  came,  out  of  either 
curiosity,  interest,  or  enmity,  to  see  what  Caesar 
was  doing  in  Gaul,  would  go  back  and  talk  about  all 
these  wonders  in  the  Forum. 

"I  think  there  was  never  seen  in  any  army,"  says 
Gaston  Boissier,  of  all  Caesar's  historians  perhaps 
the  most  enlightened  as  he  is  certainly  the  most 
sympathetic,1  "as  many  men  of  letters,  as  many 
clever  people  as  in  that  one."  Those  who  came  from 
Rome  found  the  best  of  Rome  at  Caesar's  table. 
"They  told  him  everything,  all  the  most  insignifi- 
cant as  well  as  all  the  most  important  things.  .  .  . 
After  having  discussed  literature  or  rhetoric,  having 
listened  to  the  verses  of  Matius  or  Quintus,  .  .  . 
heard  all  the  young  men  talking  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened in  Rome,  of  all  the  political  disorders  .  .  . 
private  scandals,  or  the  last  bons  mots  ...  I  imagine 
one  must  rather  have  believed  they  were  assisting 
at  a  reunion  of  clever  men,  in  some  aristocratic  house 
of  the  Palatine,  or  of  the  rich  quarter  of  the  Carenes, 
than  to  realize  that  they  were  in  the  heart  of  Belgium 

1  Gaston  Boissier,  Cictron  et  ses  Amis. 

188 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

near  the  Rhine,  or  near  the  sea  in  Gaul,  or  on  the 
eve  of  a  battle.'* 

During  the  ten  long  years  that  Caesar  was  busy 
conquering  Gaul,  then  practically  only  a  geographical 
expression,  as  well  as  Brittany,  and  incidentally 
settling  quarrels  with  the  Belgians  and  Germans, 
Gaul  was  being  civilized. 

For  the  Gaul,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  set  all 
this  "magnificence"  which  Csesar  carried  with  him, 
along  with  his  irresistible  Roman  legions,  was  for 
the  most  part  a  savage  country.  The  land  was 
mostly  all  forest.  The  winters  were  horribly  cold. 
The  Romans  were  confined  to  their  quarters  for  long 
months.  It  was  in  the  spring,  summer,  and  autumn 
that  the  battles  began  again. 

The  armies  of  the  Kaiser,  in  this  present  war, 
have  followed  the  same  rule,  climatic  conditions 
in  middle  and  northern  France  and  Belgium  not 
having  changed,  as  have  their  worlds. 

While  battles  were  being  fought  in  those  parts  of 
Gaul  and  in  those  cities  already  conquered,  superb 
Roman  roads,  theaters,  baths,  fortresses,  and  dwell- 
ing-houses were  to  be  built,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
with  the  same  rapidity  with  which  German  generals, 
in  our  day,  have  built  railroads,  have  fortified  de- 
fenses, and  have  erected  munition- works  in  conquered 
Belgium  and  invaded  France,  and  by  the  same 
means.  Caesar  gave  the  Kaiser  an  object-lesson,  in 
this  as  in  other  more  cruel  ways,  of  waging  war  and 
of  utilizing  the  energies  of  a  conquered  people. 
Csesar,  as  did  his  successors,  taught  the  Gauls  to 

184 


LILLEBONNE 

build  roads,  to  fashion  fine  houses,  to  erect  great 
edifices  and  strong  fortresses.  This  is  the  secret  of 
the  rapid  transformation  of  the  more  savage  parts  of 
Gaul  into  a  livable  country. 

Csesar,  who  up  to  the  time  of  his  Gallic  campaigns 
had  been  a  politician,  proved  himself  not  only  a 
great  general,  but  an  administrator  of  genius. 
Pascal  thought  he  was  beginning  to  play  the  part  of 
a  great  general  rather  too  late  in  life.  "He  was 
really  too  old  to  amuse  himself  by  conquering  the 
world" — he  was  already  forty-four  years  old.  But 
Caesar  was  wiser  than  Pascal.  He  was  in  Gaul  not 
only  to  subdue  that  rich  country,  but  chiefly  to 
impress  Rome  with  the  sense  of  his  greatness.  He 
was  also  waiting  for  the  moment  when,  politically, 
Rome  would  be  ripe  for  his  plucking. 

Through  the  tortuous  ways  of  men's  ambitions, 
designs,  and  oftentimes  their  crimes,  there  come 
forth,  in  wondrous  manner,  the  shaping  forces  which 
mold  great  men  and  the  future  of  great  nations. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC — AN  ADVENTURE 


TK7HETHER  or  not  the  road  leading  out  from 
Lillebonne  to  Caudebec,  via  the  river  road, 
was  one  of  those  fashioned  by  Gallic  slaves  under 
the  eyes  of  their  Roman  engineers,  I  have  never 
taken  the  pains  to  investigate.  As  an  author  re- 
sponsible to  her  readers  I  am  conscious  of  shirking  a 
duty. 

Yet,  surely,  since  all  the  world  loves  a  lover,  I  am 
already  forgiven.  I  had  fallen  in  love,  fathoms  deep. 
As  the  object  of  my  obsession  was  The  Road  itself, 
it  was  one  of  those  sentimental  attachments  to  which 
one  can  confess  having  fallen  victim  with  no  fear  of 
the  secret  being  that  lesson  in  indiscretion  one 
communicates  in  the  telling. 

The  Road — was  there  another  in  France  to  com- 
pare to  it?  We  had  barely  left  Lillebonne  behind 
us  when  the  road  made  us  captives  to  its  alluring 
charm.  It  wound  in  and  out  of  grain-fields;  it 
showed  us  now  groves  where  surely  nymphs  must 
still  come  to  bathe  in  moonlight  rays;  it  plunged  us 

186 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

under  the  green  cathedral  aisles  of  towering  beeches 
and  oaks  with  slender  poplars  for  spires. 

What  tricks  have  Frenchmen  played  with  their 
land  to  make  it  so  lovable?  Why  is  it  even  we  aliens 
turn  to  it,  as  we  do  to  a  second  country?  It  is  not 
alone  its  beauty  that  draws  men  from  all  over  the 
world,  that  attunes  the  lyre  of  its  poets  to  sing  its 
power  so  melodiously — a  power  so  strong  that  its 
sons  never  wish  to  leave  the  home-soil,  and  mourn 
for  it  inconsolably  when  in  exile.  The  heart  of  this 
endearing  France  has  been  enriched  with  a  soul,  one 
might  say,  with  the  sentient  consciousness  of  her 
people. 

Is  it  also  because  something  of  the  soul  of  the  older 
gods  still  lingers,  still  whispers  in  the  harmonious 
music  of  her  pines?  Surely  in  yonder  field  of  wheat, 
a  massive  plain  of  pure  gold,  in  those  ripe  grains, 
falling  in  tender  grace,  are  interwoven  the  tresses  of 
the  blond  goddess.  Ceres  herself  must  have  sown 
and  ripened  to  luxuriant  splendor  of  fertility  those 
other  vast  carpets — the  silvery  green  of  the  buck- 
wheat, the  paler  gold  of  the  oat-fields,  and  the 
deeper  russet  of  the  barley. 

For  a  perfect  hour  we  wandered  on  foot  through 
this  radiant  land.  It  would  have  been  profanation 
to  continue  to  hear  a  pulsating  motor. 

Once  a  part  of  the  scene,  the  warm,  voluptuous 
breath  of  summer  at  its  richest  swept  us,  enveloped 
us;  its  odors  made  the  senses  dizzy.  The  voices  and 
sounds  that  came  from  behind  the  hedges  told  us  we 
were  not  alone  in  being  stirred  by  this  intoxicating 

187 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

riot  of  nature.  A  bull's  roar,  in  a  distant  field,  rang 
out,  was  vibrant,  sonorous  as  a  clear  trumpet  call; 
and  when  the  air  was  still  once  more  one  heard 
sheep  moving  among  the  grasses,  nibbling,  stepping 
softly  as  Only  sheep  move  daintily,  in  fat  pastures. 
There  was  the  silken  rustle  of  bees  among  unseen 
flowers,  whose  odors  perfumed  an  air  already  laden 
with  sweet  grain  and  earth  scents. 

Tout  est  beau,  et  tout  est  bien;  U  est  bon  d'etre  nb. 

For  once  a  remembering  line  of  Leconte  de  Lisle 
came  to  the  lips  to  voice  the  brimming  sense  of  well- 
being. 

That  there  might  be  no  suffering  humanity  to  mar 
the  scene,  two  women,  one  young,  with  deep-blue 
Norman  eyes,  and  cheeks  carnation-hued,  as  though 
in  conscious  connivance,  suddenly  confronted  us. 
Both  women  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment;  we  in 
our  turn  appeared  to  have  communicated  the  shock 
of  a  mild  surprise.  Then  the  girl  with  the  lovely 
eyes  and  deep-pink  cheeks  smiled.  And  we  came 
nearer  to  smile  in  return  and  to  ask: 

"It  is  thus  you  carry  your  milk?" 

"Mais  oui,  Madame,"  was  the  quick,  unembar- 
rassed reply.  The  tone,  however,  implied  that  the 
carrying  two  full  pails,  brimming  with  warm  milk, 
pails  linked  to  two  chains  that  depended  from  the 
huge  wooden  yoke  about  the  girl's  broad,  sunburnt 
shoulders,  was  indeed  the  only  possible,  or  rational, 
method  of  piloting  full  pails  in  safety. 

188 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

"These  ladies  are  not  used,  perhaps,  to  our  country1 
ways  " — aux  coutumes  de  noire  pays — the  elder  woman 
now  added.  It  was  on  her,  rather  than  on  the  maiden, 
that  our  eyes  were  now  focused.  For  the  woman 
was  walking,  as  it  seemed,  in  a  kind  of  cage.  Two 
wooden  rails,  forming  a  perfect  square,  was  the 
quadrangle  encircling  the  peasant's  stout  frame. 
She  held  the  upper  rails  with  her  hand,  thus  steady- 
ing the  pails  resting  within  the  rails.  Here  were 
figures  that  surely  must  have  stepped  forth  from 
some  bucolic  scene  of  the  early  centuries.  Virgil 
himself  might  have  sung  the  rustic  charm  of  two 
such  milkmaids. 

The  sturdy  figures  left  us,  to  be  merged  in  a  field 
of  pure  gold  at  our  right.  A  man's  voice  called 
across  a  near-by  hedge: 

"C'esttoi,  Gabrielle?" 

"Oui,  c'est  moi,"  the  girl's  voice  rang  out,  clear, 
unabashed. 

A  soldier's  horizon-blues  were  lifted  above  the 
hedge;  at  sight  of  us,  in  the  open  road,  the  figure 
rested,  immobile,  across  the  hawthorn  hedge.  The 
wide  brown  eyes  stared  at  us. 

Then,  with  a  light  spring,  the  young  man  landed 
on  his  two  feet  in  the  very  middle  of  the  road.  He 
touched  his  kepi,  in  salute,  and  then  followed  in  the 
wake  of  the  women,  across  the  golden  field.  Once 
we  were  out  of  sight,  the  uncontrollable  lover's  song 
burst  out  upon  the  warm,  still  air.  The  quickening, 
radiant  spirit  of  the  warm  day  was  entering  into 
other  souls  than  ours. 

189 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Even  when  the  song  died  away,  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, it  seemed  as  if  the  earth  continued  the  song, 
singing  for  very  gladness.  The  voice  was  surely 
" 'la  voix  de  Dieu  qui  chante  a  travers  les  champs" 
And  again  I  kept  repeating,  "Tout  est  beau,  et  tout 
est  bien;  il  est  bon  d'etre  ne." 

The  dear,  the  lovable,  the  enticing  land!  How 
your  beauty  lures  us,  how  it  subdues  us  to  your 
spirit,  how  your  charm  enters  into  one's  very  blood 
and  makes  of  even  an  ardent  American  a  patriot 
of  two  countries,  the  lover  of  two  flags  where  there 
should  be  but  one. 

As  our  car  carried  us  on  and  on,  those  pictures  of 
an  unsuspected  France,  of  a  France  so  far  removed 
from  modern  innovations,  this  glorious  spectacle  of 
a  France  abloom  with  the  pontifical  glory  of  pros- 
perity, followed  us,  warmed  and  comforted  us. 
Surely  there  had  been  no  war;  there  was  no  dev- 
astated, outraged  France;  there  were  no  poor 
creatures  living  not  a  hundred  kilometers  away,  in 
roofless  houses,  behind  glassless  windows,  with  the 
horror  still  confronting  them,  night  and  day,  of  their 
towns  and  villages  a  mass  of  ruins,  with  no  house  to 
call  home,  and  with  nothing  left  of  former  prosperity 
but  a  signed  paper,  ready  for  governmental  relief. 

This  spectacle  of  horror  on  which  we  had  looked 
only  a  short  time  since  was  surely  a  bad  dream,  a 
vision  of  a  Dantesque  hell.  The  true  France  was 
this  country,  teeming  with  ripe  harvests,  where  sheep 
nibbled  in  deep  grasses,  where  nothing  had  been 
changed  for  centuries,  and  where  the  song  of  a  lover 

190 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

carried  on  the  long  chorus  of  lovers  that  had  sung 
itself  out  under  groves  of  silvery  beeches  and  wide- 
spreading  oaks  for  all  the  years  since  Caesar  went 
back  to  Rome  to  die  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue. 


Farms  close  to  the  road,  here  and  there  a  villa 
with  its  trim  French  garden  and  the  century-old 
trees  in  the  park,  warned  us  that  the  road  was  coming 
to  an  end.  Our  lyrical  moment  was  already  a  part 
of  our  past. 

The  gardens  we  liked  best,  we  avowed,  were  the 
true  French  gardens,  not  those  planned  by  or  after 
Le  Notre,  but  the  farmers',  the  peasants'  gardens. 
In  the  farms  and  thatched  houses  we  passed  windows 
were  geranium-trimmed;  there  were  Gloire-de-Dijon, 
Roses  Tremieres,  or  purple  clematis  starring  the  dull 
brick  or  timbered  fagades  with  their  white,  pink,  or 
deep-purple  flowers;  wallflowers,  sans-soucis,  phlox, 
and  lavender  bloomed  beside  cabbages,  salad,  and  the 
dung-heap.  We  were  about  to  protest  against  the 
dung-heap  with  all  the  vigor  of  American  distaste 
for  noxious  sights  and  odors,  when  something 
happened. 

An  adventure  met  us,  cap  in  hand,  so  to  speak. 

A  motor-cycle,  coming  along  at  a  furious  rate, 
slowed  up  as  they  saw  us  approach. 

A  warning  hand  signaled  us  to  stop.  As  the 
vehicle  was  swept  beyond  our  wings,  we  saw  that 
the  two  occupants  were  unmistakably  Americans, 

191 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

and  both,  we  thought,  were  officers  in  our  army. 
One  of  the  two,  the  one  seated  in  the  "wife-killer's 
seat,"  as  both  motors  stopped,  uncoiled  his  long 
legs,  put  one  leg  over  the  side  of  the  car,  and  stood 
up,  saluting,  as  he  walked  toward  us. 

"Sorry  to  stop  you,  ladies,  but  we're  lost.  Can 
you  understand  our  lingo?"  The  voice,  which  was 
the  voice  of  the  Far  West,  no  more  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  superb  creature  before  us  than  had  it  been 
the  organ  for  transmitting  speech  through  the  lips 
of  a  Greek  god  come  to  life. 

Our  amazingly  beautiful  compatriot — for  beau- 
tiful he  was — had  a  gigantesque  height.  The  slim, 
supple  body  stood  as  straight  as  a  Northern  pine. 
But  the  classic  cut  of  those  perfect  features — the 
somewhat  small,  exquisitely  chiseled  face,  with  its 
straight  Greek  nose,  the  oval-shaped  cheeks,  the 
rounded  chin,  and  eyes  set  far  apart  as  are  the  eyes 
of  an  Adonis,  in  marble — eyes  shaded  by  long 
drooping  lids,  through  which  deep-blue  pools  re- 
flected just  now  a  mingling  of  embarrassed  per- 
plexity and  mirth — where  were  the  ethnic  strains 
that  answered  the  riddle  of  that  pure  Greek 
type? 

Our  young  god  was  now  leaning  over  with  the 
easy,  simple  familiarity  of  kindly  Western  manners, 
both  his  long  arms  on  our  window-sills.  Having 
been  assured  we  spoke  the  "lingo,"  he  was  proceeding 
further  to  explain  the  situation,  when  the  driver  of 
the  vehicle  found  himself  too  remote  from  the  center 
of  interest.  Now  both  stood  before  us — the  one 

192 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

fair  and  the  other  dark.    And  both  were  so  amazingly 
tall — so  superb! 

The  latest  comer  proceeded  to  take  the  narrative 
of  their  adventures  from  his  comrade's  lips.  "Hope 
you'll  excuse  us,  ladies,  but  something — I  can't 
explain — something  made  us  think  you  were  Eng- 
lish, or  Americans.  And  we  were  just  desperate. 
We  got  lost  just  the  other  side  of  that  'ere  town;  and 
once  in  the  town,  not  a  blessed  word  could  any  one 
understand.  Nor  could  we."  Here  both  of  the 
men  laughed  heartily,  as  though  getting  lost  in  a 
French  town,  with  no  hope  of  being  understood,  were 
the  richest  of  jokes. 

"Yes,  ma'am — and  if  you'll  believe  me,  they 
didn't  even  understand  when  we  said  'manger" 
(the  dark-eyed  giant  pronounced  the  word  "mange, ") 
"and  we're  starving,  having  left  Rouen  at  six  A.M. 
and  wandering  about  these  cursed  roads — I  beg 
pardon,  but  they  are  crisscrossy — when  the  sign- 
posts spell  out  every  village  but  the  ones  you're 
looking  for.  This  wandering  about  has  kinder 
freshened  our  appetites." 

We  could  meet  our  fellow-Americans  there,  and 
on  a  common  ground.  We  confessed  the  keenness  of 
edge  of  our  own  hunger.  The  four  eyes  before  us 
beamed.  They  fairly  radiated  their  youthful  de- 
light at  the  unconventional  proposition  I  made. 
What  were  conventions  when  one  had  the  luck  to 
meet  two  such  fine  creatures  on  a  highroad? 

"  Why  not  go  back  to  Caudebec  with  us — and  lunch? 
There  is  an  excellent  restaurant  there,  we  learn." 

193 


UP  THE   SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

There  was  not  an  instant's  hesitation. 

"Right  you  are,  lady,"  cried  our  fair  friend,  and 
he  was  seated  in  his  death-named  seat  in  a  jiffy. 
The  driver  was  nodding  his  curly  head  gaily,  singing 
out  at  the  top  of  his  Western-pitched  voice,  "Meet 
you  at  the  church!"  They  were  speeding  down  the 
road  as  though  going  to  a  rendezvous  with  the  very 
creatures  of  their  choice. 

In  an  age  when  the  emancipated  woman  tells  us 
she  has  no  use  for  man,  when  the  vote  is  her  dot, 
and  freedom  her  bourn,  I  look  upon  my  own  creeds 
as  those  buried  in  dusty  tomes,  relegated  to  forgotten 
library  shelves. 

I  was  brought  up  in  a  period  when  our  sex  still 
believed  in  man.  In  spite  of  some  chastening  disil- 
lusions, that  early  educational  bias  prevails  over 
modern  pronunciamientos.  I  have,  therefore,  no 
shame  in  avowing  an  agreeable  stirring  of  inward 
excitement  at  the  thought  of  continuing  the  ac- 
quaintance of  those  two  young  compatriots. 

There  was  barely  time  to  receive  another  agreeable 
surprise.  The  magnificent  front  portal  of  Caudebec's 
famous  church  met  us,  at  the  very  entrance  of  the 
little  town. 

"Superb!"  I  ejaculated,  and  then  feared  the 
young  giants  might  deem  it  a  personal  compliment. 
Not  they.  There  they  stood,  "watching  out"  as 
they  would  have  put  it — awaiting  us  under  the 
carved  laces  of  the  tall,  uprising  spire.  They  might 
have  been  two  knights  of  an  age  contemporaneous 
with  the  Renaissance  sculptures.  They  stood  "at 

104 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

attention, "  saluting  with  a  grace  as  perfect  as  though 
trained  at  a  court. 

The  fairer  of  the  two — one  we  were  to  learn  was 
Second-Lieutenant  Oscar — had  heard  my  outburst. 
Twisting  his  head,  he  blushed  under  the  sun-rays  as 
his  eyes  measured  the  great  spire.  "Tall,  hey?  Some 
spire,  ain't  it?"  But  his  companion  had  no  eyes  for 
beauty.  He  was  bent  on  more  carnal  joys. 

"That  restaurant,  lady,  is  it  near?" 

The  appeal  was  couched  in  a  tone  there  was  no 
mistaking.  Keen-edged  hunger  alone  could  com- 
municate a  note  so  sharpened  with  longing. 

The  walk  onward  to  the  quays  was  short,  but  ob- 
structed. We  had  stumbled  on  the  Caudebec  mar- 
ket-day. The  sidewalks  and  streets  were  crowded 
with  stalls,  with  awnings  and  umbrellas.  Stout 
girls  and  crimson-cheeked  women  were  screech- 
ing their  wares.  And  the  debris  and  litter  of  day's 
bargains  bestrewed  gutters  and  counters. 

We  finally  reached  the  river  shores.  A  providen- 
tial encounter  met  us  at  the  outset.  The  owner  of 
an  alluring  little  balconied  restaurant  lining  the  street 
overlooking  the  quays  came  forward.  Bareheaded, 
gray-bearded,  gray-eyed,  our  host  had  rather  the  look 
of  a  clever  provincial  lawyer,  or  governmental  official, 
than  the  owner  of  the  little  tables  fluttering  their 
table-cloth  banners  above  us. 

He  solicitated  our  custom  with  warmth;  and  such, 
I  take  it,  is  the  very  best  of  methods  of  winning  either 
customers  or  a  lady's  hand. 

"Bully — this — hey,  Jack?     Ladies,  this  is  fine!" 

195 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Our  lieutenant  was  the  man  of  our  two  friends  for 
estimating  the  true  value  of  late  Gothic  spires  or  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  river. 

"I  say,  ma'am,  can  you  ask  him  if  he  can  give  us 
all  a  cocktail?  Martini  or  Asbury  Park,  it's  all  one 
to  me — so  I  get  it,"  our  darker  friend  shot  forth, 
with  eyes  that  glowed  at  the  prospect  of  the  hope  of 
being  gratified. 

The  clever-visaged  man  who  should  have  been  a 
lawyer  had  served  Americans  before.  An  "Asbury 
Park"  was  still  an  unknown,  as  yet  an  unheard-of 
mixture  to  Caudebec-en-Caux.  But  for  the  supply- 
ing of  the  Martini  there  was  no  hesitation:  "Cer- 
tainement,  mon  Lieutenant,  dans  quelques  instants," 
was  the  quick  reply. 

With  the  swift  descent  of  the  cocktail,  our  dear 
American  boy — he  was  still  really  a  boy — beat  an 
ecstatic  tattoo  on  the  table.  The  dark  eyes  now 
were  glowing  fireballs;  the  bronzed  cheeks  were 
tinted  with  a  faint  flush.  All  the  rich  sap  of  the 
unspent  youth  in  the  great  frame  was  mounting  to 
acclaim  his  content. 

"Ladies,  you've  saved  our  lives!  This  is  great! 
As  good  a  cocktail  as  I  can  get  in  Seattle — and  the 
omelet"  (he  pronounced  it  "omlet") — "some  omlet! 
just  swimming  in  butter. 

"Jack — I  say — think  of  what  those  boys  will  say 
when  we  tell  them  the  luck  we're  in?  Golly!  won't 
they  whine!" 

The  envy  of  those  who  were  to  "whine,"  who  were 
not  here  to  share  our  gay  little  meal,  seemed  to  sea- 

196 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

son  the  dishes  with  a  sauce  peculiarly  to  our  friend's 
taste.  Finally  we  learned  the  reason  of  their  jubila- 
tion. Four  of  them,  all  of  our  force,  had  had  leave 
to  go  down  to  Havre  by  car.  The  car,  however,  had 
broken  down  at  Rouen.  "Rotten  old  thing — all  out 
of  repair.  Front  spring  broke  before  we'd  made  ten 
kilometers."  The  automobile,  therefore,  was  labori- 
ously taken  back  to  Rouen  and  handed  over  to  the 
military  authorities.  The  two  others  had  decided 
to  go  to  Havre  by  train. 

"Not  we — we'd  been  jogging  along  over  this 
blessed  country  till  we  were  sickened  of  trains. 
Camels  would  have  taken  you  quicker.  Queer 
country,  France.  Seems  as  if  she's  stuck  fast,  in  a 
rut,  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  was  satisfied  to 
stay  there." 

"Well,  we'd  made  up  our  minds  to  tour  it,  down 
to  the  ship.  So  we  got  this  little  bus.  and  speed  she 
does,  I'll  say  that  for  her.  If  we  hadn't  got  lost  and 
any  one  had  understood  us,  we'd  have  lost  all  this 
an'  been  there  by  this  time." 

As  succulent  dish  succeeded  succulent  dish,  the 
talk  warmed  to  more  personal  intimacy.  There  was 
an  excellent  bottle  of  dry  Haut  Sauterne  to  facilitate 
confession.  There  was  also  the  high  rauque  voices 
proceeding  from  the  market-stalls  lining  the  quays, 
to  give  our  little  party  the  sense  of  a  peculiar  in- 
timacy. For  one  thing,  we  all  speaking  "the 
language,"  as  Lieutenant  Oscar  kept  repeating,  as 
though  it  were  a  sacrosanct  binding  of  ties.  And  so 
it  is.  The  men's  phraseology  and  ours  were,  at  least, 

14  1»7 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

two  thousand  miles  apart.  But  whatever  their  line- 
age, or  however  different  their  manner  of  speech, 
we  were  all  of  one  country,  we  spoke  the  same 
tongue,  and  we  understood  that  deeper  language 
still — the  one  that  needs  no  translation  nor  trans- 
lator, since  it  is  the  voice  of  the  American  soul. 

It  sometimes  seems  as  though  if  certain  of  our 
brothers — more  often  our  sisters  in  the  favored  East 
— had  lost  their  souls  through  too  lavish  gifts  of  the 
gods  of  wealth  and  plenty,  our  Western  compatriots 
had  found  theirs. 

At  a  certain  turn  the  talk  took,  over  our  coffee, 
I  found  my  words  choking  me;  there  was  a  mist 
before  my  eyes.  The  way  Oscar  spoke  of  his  mother 
was  the  more  moving  because  of  the  perfect  nat- 
uralness in  which  he  conveyed  his  feeling  for  her. 

Oscar  had  come  over  to  my  side;  we  had  squared 
our  chairs  to  look  forth  the  easier  on  the  busy  scene 
below.  The  good  cheer  had  heightened  the  young 
man's  beauty,  as  it  had  loosened  the  rivets  of  a 
certain  self-contained  restraint.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
on  an  old  woman  trundling  a  big  load  of  potatoes. 

"Lord!  how  they  work  their  women  here!  See 
that  poor  old  thing!  It  makes  one  ache  to  see  her," 
he  cried  out.  I  ventured  to  suggest  the  loss  of  man- 
power, the  one  and  a  half  million  dead  and  wounded, 
the  wrecked  parts  of  France  where  every  available 
man  was  needed. 

"Yes — oh  yes,  I  know!  I've  seen  it  all.  I  know. 
It's  awful,  though,  the  sufferings  of  women  over  here. 
Why — in  our  country — no  man  'd  stand  for  it." 

198 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

I  made  him  go  on.  I  felt  certain  he  would  yield 
to  my  urging.  I  was  eager  to  learn  the  mystery  of 
that  face  of  his — of  his  delicate,  considerate  ways 
with  women,  and  of  his  sympathy  for  suffering. 

"Yes — you're  right —  I've  had  a  good  mother — 
the  best.  You  see,  we're  a  large  family — there's 
six  of  us  boys — and  one  girl.  Father's  had  luck, 
out  there  in  Washington  state.  And  so  have  we. 
Between  us  all,  we  hold  about  four  thousand  acres. 
Our  sheep  and  cattle  have  good  grazing-land." 

"But  servants — what  do  you  do  for  help?  Your 
mother?" 

A  new  kind  of  smile  parted  the  perfectly  curved 
lips.  "Oh-h,  mother — she  don't  work.  We  don't 
let  her  do  nothing.  Why,  there's  six  of  us,  as  I  told 
you,  and  all  healthy  and  strong.  There's  always 
two  or  three  of  us  around.  She's  done  her  share. 
She  brought  us  up.  We  don't  let  her  work." 

"You're  all  good  cooks,  then — " 

"Well,  there's  a  difference."  And  the  young  giant 
laughed  till  his  body  shook.  "Guess  you  wouldn't 
want  to  eat  Fred's  mixtures.  He's  the  worst!  We 
let  him  feed  the  pigs,  and  even  they  know  what 
they're  in  for!"  And  again  his  convulsive  laughter 
shook  him. 

He  needed  no  further  prodding.  The  look  back- 
ward to  the  home  farm  had  kindled  the  home  fires. 
He  had  a  farm  awaiting  him  already,  he  said,  with 
a  blush,  "for  her — and  she's  a  real  girl!"  They  were 
to  be  married  as  soon  as  he  reached  "the  farm" 
— at  his  father's,  "for  she's  an  orphan,  quite  alone 

109 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in  the  world — same  country  her  people  came  from 
as  mother's." 

I  held  my  breath.  I  felt  I  was  on  the  very  trail 
of  the  mystery. 

"And  your  mother  came  from — ?" 

"Her  folks  came  from  Italy — somewhere — 'way 
down  south — in  the  heel,  as  she  always  says  with 
a  laugh;  calls  it  'down  at  heel'!" 

Italy — down  at  the  heel.  Of  course,  here  was  the 
riddle  of  those  exquisite  features  made  plain.  For 
down  in  certain  portions  of  Calabria  there  are  still 
traditions  so  purely  of  Greek  or  Latin  origin  that 
old  marriage  customs,  old  ways  of  burial,  classic 
dances — such  out-of-date  customs  are  still  in  vogue. 
This  transmitted  inheritance  of  a  remote  Greco- 
Latin  race  might  explain  the  perfectly  cut  features. 
But  the  frame — that  Herculean,  yet  graceful  shape? 

As  the  young  man  kept  on,  telling  of  his  moonlight 
rides  across  the  great  stretches  of  country,  another 
clue  was  given.  "Father's  people,  you  see,  coming 
from  the  far  north,  from  Sweden — he  likes  trees. 
And  so  we've  planted  no  end." 

It  was  all  made  clear.  This  union  of  strength  and 
beauty  was  the  heritage  from  the  north  and  south, 
from  Swedish  prowess  and  Greco-Roman  transmis- 
sion of  purity  of  type.  America,  however,  its  soul 
and  its  sympathetic  qualities,  had  put  its  seal  on 
her  son.  Oscar  was  American,  in  feeling,  in  chiv- 
alric  sentiment,  and  in  tenderness,  as  in  his  pos- 
session of  that  saving  salt  of  humor,  so  peculiarly 
an  American  trait. 

200 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

Of  the  war,  or  of  his  part  in  his  Argonne  experi- 
ences, Oscar  was  singularly  reticent.  His  Croix  de 
Guerre  with  its  many  stars  attested  his  exploits. 
The  record  of  this,  his  more  recent  past,  he  appeared 
to  have  wiped  off  memory's  slate. 

"Awful — yes — it  was  awful.  But  we  won  out," 
was  as  much  as  he  would  say  when  we  touched  on 
the  war,  on  our  part  and  his,  in  the  great,  the  stu- 
pendous struggle. 

I  have  seen  the  same  reluctance  in  others  of  our 
soldiers  to  dwell  on  battles  and  the  horrors  they  had 
passed  through.  The  pride  and  glory  in  their  own 
participation  in  this  greatest  of  modern  wars  will 
come  later.  Distance  will  give  its  right  perspective 
to  each  individual  effort.  The  Anglo-Saxon  in- 
stinctive shrinking  from  obtruding  personal  feats  of 
courage  will  yield  to  the  enhancing  effects  of  time 
and  its  glorifying  vision. 

in 

I  perceived  my  young  friend  lost  nothing  of  the 
busy  scene  of  the  stage  set  just  below  us.  His  blue 
eyes  followed  the  Caudebecoise  belles,  in  their 
bright  jerseys,  tight  skirts,  and  bare  necks  and  arms. 
Caudebec  had  adopted  the  modernized  "back-to- 
nature"  fashions.  Older,  more  rural  customs  held 
good  in  the  bared  heads  and  in  the  banding  together 
of  these  strolling  girls.  Linked  arm-in-arm,  by  groups 
of  six  and  seven,  these  maidens  chatted  and  laughed; 
some  could  be  heard  humming  a  tune  as  they  passed 
along  the  booths. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"Some  girls,  hey,  ma'am!  I  reckon  they're  lone- 
some, some  of  'em.  Ain't  no  boys  around — not 
many.  Too  bad!  Mostly  old  ones  one  sees  now  all 
about." 

Oscar's  pity,  all-embracing  though  it  was,  did  not 
carry  him  to  the  point  of  attempting  to  enliven  the 
maidens  in  their  "lonesome"  walk. 

The  owners  of  the  dusty  automobiles,  cars  of  a 
before-the-war  character,  rattling,  unpainted,  and 
with  road-worn  tires,  these  provincial  comers  to  the 
fair  were  indeed  all  old  or  middle-aged.  The  men 
would  climb  out  of  their  seats,  take  off  their  dingy 
cover-coats,  help  a  wife  or  a  mother  to  descend, 
and  then,  having  steadied  the  car  against  a  stone 
parapet  alining  the  shore,  would  leave  the  car  un- 
protected. Some  ten  or  fifteen  were  thus  aban- 
doned. Oscar  had  his  reflections  to  make  on  as 
commendable  a  proof  of  Norman  honesty. 

"They're  an  honest  lot,  these  people.  But  at  a 
bargain — golly! — they'd  cheat  a  Jew,  or  a  Scotch- 
man. Squeeze  you!  They'd  squeeze  the  life  out 
of  a  pawnbroker!" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "the  Normans  are  the  most 
grasping  of  all  others  in  France.  There  is,  however, 
a  survival  of  a  curious  sense  of  honesty  among  them. 
Those  golden  bracelets  Rollo  hung  on  the  tree — " 
I  began. 

"Golden  bracelets?  That's  a  new  wrinkle.  Never 
heard  of  that."  And  I  must  tell  the  story  of  Hollo's 
hanging  of  this  jewel  on  the  tree,  in  this  Normandy  of 
twelve  centuries  ago,  this  his  own  dominion,  and 

202 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

one  he  proposed  to  rule  in  honest  ways,  thus  teach- 
ing his  "pirates"  the  first  rule  governing  civilized 
men.  Oscar  listened  to  my  tale  as  might  a  child,  with 
the  same  still,  rigid  pose,  with  the  same  intent,  fixed 
gaze.  When  I  finished  he  sighed. 

"It's  great — that  story.  And  it's  great,  too,  to 
be  educated.  That's  what's  hard  to  get  out  where 
we  are.  Father  would  have  sent  some  of  us  to  col- 
lege. Mother  was  willing,  though  then,  when  we 
were  poorer,  it  meant  a  lot  more  work.  But  none 
of  us  went.  We  weren't  educated  enough  to  know 
all  it  meant.  We  know,  now  it's  too  late."  The  great 
blue  eyes  looked  away  from  the  life  that  was  play- 
ing out  its  part  below  us.  What  did  they  see, 
those  deep  pools  of  light?  Long,  wide  stretches  of 
billowy  grain  and  grass-lands.  The  wild  dashes, 
across  untilled  fields,  on  bronco  ponies,  to  round 
up  flocks  and  herds?  The  swift,  sharp  air  cutting 
across  treeless  plains — was  this  free,  fierce  wind 
striking  its  notes  above  the  noisy  Norman  voices? 
Whatever  the  words  he  had  uttered  had  conjured 
up,  of  scenes  and  of  lost  chances  in  life,  the  vision 
left  my  new  friend  pensive. 

The  moment's  pause  gave  me  also  time  for  reflec- 
tion. Surely  there  is  a  higher  education  which  our 
American  life  instils,  and  which  one  would  not  ex- 
change for  all  the  curriculum  of  the  most  renowned 
universities.  It  is  this  flowering  of  sympathy,  this 
amazing  understanding,  this  quick,  clear  insight;  but 
above  all  else  it  is  the  chivalric  feeling  and  sentiment 
toward  women,  children,  and  suffering  humanity, 

203 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

which  makes  one  go  down  on  one's  knees  in  gratitude 
for  having  been  born  in  a  land  where  such  virtues  are 
engendered.  It  is  this  comprehension  that  "all  the 
world  is  kin"  that  stirred  the  soul  of  America  in  our 
recent  war.  In  all  history  there  is  no  page  so  bright, 
so  glorious  as  that  one  our  dear  land  can  inscribe — 
when  America  semi-starved  itself,  as  a  nation,  that 
she  might  feed  the  world.  If  you  can  match  as 
humanitarian  an  act,  in  all  the  long  record  of  man's 
deeds,  I  know  it  not. 

This  dear  boy  beside  me  was,  therefore,  indeed 
"educated"  in  the  higher,  deeper  sense  of  the  mean- 
ing we  should  give  to  such  training.  He  and  thou- 
sands like  him  brought  to  France  not  only  the 
miraculous  help  of  their  courage  and  daring — the 
courage  and  daring  that  helped  to  gain  the  great 
victory;  they  brought  to  this  older  race  something 
even  more  precious.  Chivalry  had  not  died  with 
the  eight  thousand  nobles  who  perished  at  the  battle 
of  Agincourt;  it  had  crossed  the  Atlantic.  Some- 
thing of  all  this  I  said  to  Oscar,  and  also  this: 

"At  Autun,  once  Caesar's  capital,  two  thousand  of 
our  soldiers  (M.  P.'s)  were  stationed  in  the  Bur- 
gundian  town  for  over  two  years. 

"'When  they  left,'  an  inhabitant  of  the  town  told 
me,  last  summer,  'there  was  all  the  town  to  see  them 
off,  filling  the  streets.  Old  men  and  young,  and  all 
of  us  women,  we  were  all  in  tears.  And  the  children, 
too.  For  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  had  not 
received  some  kindness,  help  of  some  kind  from  those 
wonderful  men — ces  hommes  merveilleux.  If  the 

204 


THE  ROAD  TO  CAUDEBEC— AN  ADVENTURE 

Americans  met  an  old  man  or  a  woman  along  the 
road,  coming  to  market,  or  a  little  girl  or  boy,  they 
always  slowed  down  and  took  them  in.  And  every 
child  in  Autun  had  candy,  and  many  of  us  who  hadn't 
seen  white  flour  since  the  war  had  our  weekly  gifts 
in  their  white  bread.  And  if  our  babies  were  sick, 
the  American  major  would  come,  if  our  good  French 
major  was  away.  Oh,  we  loved  your  soldiers!  We 
shall  never  forget  them.  C'etaient  de  vrais  gentil- 
hommes.'" 

On  recounting  this  tribute  to  Oscar  as  conduct 
which  seemed  to  me  proof  of  a  very  remarkable 
education,  his  quick  answer  came: 

"Oh  yes,  most  of  our  men,  I  think,  was  pretty 
decent.  But  being  civil  ain't  book-learning.  An' 
that's  what  counts." 

Is  it,  indeed?  "The  important  respect  in  regard 
to  travel  was"  (is)  "with  respect  to  its  advantages 
to  one's  country."1  Oscar,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
will  have  continued  his  true  "education,"  though  it 
be  not  "book-learning,"  in  this  great  school  to  which 
he  has  been,  of  war  and  travel.  He  and  thousands 
of  others  will  bring  countless  advantages  from  their 
terrible  and  yet  glorious  experiences,  both  as  war- 
riors and  as  travelers,  to  that  distant  Far  West — to 
their  own  country. 

1  I.- mis  Einstein,  Italian  Renaissance  in  England. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


CAUDEBEC 


WITH  the  departure  of  our  compatriots,  there 
was  a  sensible  drop  in  the  emotional  tem- 
perature. The  air  seemed  to  have  lost  its  quicken- 
ing. A  certain  vibratory  force  was  gone  from  the 
scene  and  the  atmosphere. 

A  steamboat  of  somewhat  familiar  outlines  aroused 
us  from  our  nursery  state  of  lament.  The  boat, 
white  in  color,  not  over-large,  its  decks  black  with 
its  cargo  of  passengers,  was  sweeping  past  Caudebec 
with  the  insolent  air  of  ignoring  the  fact  that  Caude- 
bec was  a  port. 

Could  it  be  our  own  boat  for  Rouen — the  one  we 
had  incontinently  deserted?  A  voice  at  our  elbow 
left  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  our  tragic  fate. 

"Mais  oui,  Madame,  it  is  the  boat  to  Rouen.  But 
you  see  it  did  not  stop,  as  there  were  no  passengers." 

"But — but — it  doesn't  stop?  It  goes  on?  and 
yet  we  were  officially  told — by  the  captain  the  boat 
stopped  at  Caudebec,"  was  gasped,  such  perfidy 
seeming  unbelievable  in  any  man  wearing  a  uniform. 

206 


CAUDEBEC 

"Yes — the  boat  sto^s — Madame,  when  there  are 
passengers,"  calmly  reiterated  the  restaurant- 
keeper. 

Seeing  consternation  still  holding  us  fast,  he  added, 
as  though  to  hold  out  a  beacon  of  hope:  "If  ces 
dames  wish  to  take  the  boat  on  its  next  trip,  perhaps 
these  ladies  will  give  me  warning — in  time." 

On  further  consultation  it  appeared,  though 
Caudebec  was  a  port  officially,  in  point  of  exact 
fact  the  river  current  ran  too  swiftly  to  permit  of 
the  Havre  boat  making  a  landing.  "One  embarks 
sometimes  over  there — in  a  small  boat — or  over 
yonder."  Our  host  pointed  to  various  landing- 
places  along  the  docks. 

The  situation  now  assumed  a  humorous  aspect. 
Here  was  a  boat,  the  one  and  only  means  of  com- 
munication, by  the  most  beautiful  river  in  France, 
between  two  great  ports — between  Havre  and  Rouen! 
That  there  might  be  no  waste  of  time  or  coal,  no 
passengers  meant  no  stop.  How  was  the  traveler  to 
learn  such  secrets  of  maritime  economy?  No  single 
guide-book  warned  the  ignorant  or  unwary  of  so 
important  a  fact.  On  the  whole  water-front  of 
Caudebec  no  signal  or  sign  conveyed  so  important  a 
warning  to  native  or  foreigner. 

This  river  traffic  was  conducted,  apparently,  on 
the  principle  that  time  was  best  spent  when  lost; 
that  to  miss  a  boat,  to  wait  for  forty-eight  hours 
until  the  same  boat  should  recommence  the  same 
eccentric,  irresponsible  antics,  was  a  matter  of  no 
consequence,  since  the  belated  traveler  had  all 

207 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Caudebec,  St.-Wandrille,  Le  Trait,  Jumieges,  and 
Duclair  as  compensations. 

We  were  not  so  dull  that  we  could  not  accept  a  gift 
of  such  amplitude,  of  such  promise  of  enjoyment.  We 
had  been  surprised;  we  had  even  burned  with  indig- 
nation, feeling  we  had  been  treacherously  dealt  with. 
We  now  took  the  broad  hint  chance  gave  us.  We 
proceeded  to  enjoy  ourselves  prodigiously. 

Two  full,  long  days!  And  with  what  a  country  to 
explore!  We  started  forth  in  a  rush  of  recovered 
spirits  to  find  Caudebec's  charms  immeasurably 
enhanced. 

The  market,  to  begin  with  what  was  immediately 
set  before  us,  was  in  all  the  flutter  of  tearing  off  its 
finery.  It  was  proceeding  to  show  us  every  rib,  so 
to  speak,  of  its  naked  anatomy.  It  was,  in  some 
way,  as  uninteresting  a  performance  as  when  a  stout 
woman,  on  the  stage,  persists  in  taking  off  her  gown. 
Here,  at  least,  we  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  being 
able  to  turn  our  backs  on  the  performance. 

We  left  the  scene  of  the  quays,  strewn  with 
boards,  with  iron  poles,  with  women  piling  heavy 
baskets  into  deep  wagons,  and  men  winding  ribbons 
and  folding  laces  away,  with  fingers  as  dexterous  as 
a  woman's.  The  uses  to  which  husbands  may  be 
put  have  never  been  fully  grasped  by  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  spouse.  It  is  only  the  Latin  woman  who,  with 
clear-sighted,  sociological  instinct,  once  launched  on 
the  matrimonial  venture,  quietly  decides  which  of 
the  two  is  better  fitted  to  carry  on  the  various 
branches  life  a  deux  develops. 

208 


CAUDEBEC 

The  Frenchwoman,  for  long  centuries,  has  been 
an  unconscious  factor  of  labor-saving  force.  If  her 
homme  be  the  stronger,  the  more  capable  of  the  two, 
linked  together  as  they  are  to  fight  life's  battle,  the 
French  wife  subsides;  she  accepts  and  "makes  good" 
her  place  as  second,  in  the  struggle  for  success.  But 
if  she  discovers  a  weakling  in  the  man  the  dot  system 
has  allotted  her,  then  as  maitresse  femme  it  is  she  who 
rules — and  her  husband  winds  ribbons  and  laces, 
while  she  tosses  baskets  or  heavy  boards,  weighing 
kilos,  into  great  carts. 

n 

There  were  so  many  alluring  side-shows,  so  to 
speak,  at  Caudebec  that  we  found  a  certain  difficulty 
in  immediately  reaching  its  chief,  its  supreme, 
attraction. 

There  were  streets  that  took  the  unmistakable 
curves  of  streets  which  had  been  girdled  by  stout 
walls.  They  were  narrow,  tortuous,  with  the  be- 
guiling air  of  wandering,  now,  unhindered  into  the 
open  country. 

La  rue  de  la  Boucherie  offered  tempting  discover- 
ies. Among  lines  of  houses  old  enough  to  reward 
any  search  after  antiquities,  there  were  two  that  were 
ancestors  of  all  the  others.  Built  of  stone,  with 
narrow  slits  for  windows,  these  wonderful  survivors 
of  Caudebec's  wars  and  sieges  had  known  what  life 
in  the  fifteenth  century  was  like.  Other  dwellings, 
with  wooden  fagades,  with  here  and  there  a  sculpt- 
ured door-lintel  or  a  window-frame  embroidered 

209 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

with  rude,  defaced  flowers,  such  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  century  houses  made  of  every  street  in 
Caudebec  the  true  presentment  of  the  town  as  it 
appeared  in  those  now  remote  centuries. 

The  charm  of  this  Old  World  reality  was  enhanced 
by  the  singular  calm  Caudebec  preserves.  Now  that 
the  market  was  closed,  there  was  a  curious,  brooding 
silence  in  the  streets.  Sabots'  clicking  snap  on  the 
stone-paved  thoroughfare — and  then  all  would  be 
still.  The  hour  would  strike  from  unseen  clocks,  in 
thin,  strident  voices — voices  still  telling  the  time  to 
ears  long  since  dead,  they  seemed.  Ours  were  the 
only  footfalls  in  the  street  leading  to  the  curiously 
interesting,  ancient-featured  Place  d'Armes. 

We  had  the  Place  to  ourselves — we  and  the  old 
houses  and  the  uprising,  the  amazingly  beautiful, 
church  spire.  It  was  an  uncovenanted  piece  of  pure 
luck  to  have  captured  the  famous  spire  at  this  dis- 
tance and  from  just  this  point  of  view.  Thus 
seemingly  detached  from  its  base,  its  florescent 
coronal  rising  skyward,  the  full  glory  of  its  sumptuous 
carvings,  its  lofty  height,  and  its  tapering  grace  were 
thus  intensified,  outlined  against  a  sky  whose  blues 
Were  like  unto  a  solid  curtain  of  velvet.  One  looked 
and  looked,  and  never  could  one  weary  of  so  com- 
pletely enrapturing  a  spectacle. 

To  tear  the  eyes  away,  and  to  seek  lesser,  dimin- 
ished sensations,  was  a  concession  made  to  the  really 
alluring  features  of  the  Place  d'Armes.  One  might 
have  thought  the  houses,  set  about  in  such  casual 
fashion,  had  been  thus  built  to  form  what  all  the 

810 


CAUDEBEC 

world   now   travels   to   look   upon — a   picturesque 
grouping. 

There  was  a  house  abutting  on  the  Place  that  came 
to  a  point;  there  were  others  that  slid  away,  showing 
a  timbered  side,  a  low  wooden  door,  and  chimneys 
old  enough  to  know  better  than  to  topple  over  tiled 
roofs  as  steep  as  an  Alpine  coasting-bill. 

All  these  old  streets  led  us  finally  to  the  central 
Caudebec  jewel — to  the  northern  end  of  the  church. 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  stating  that  to  stand  before 
th;s  architectural  triumph  is,  in  itself,  enough  to 
reward  one  for  a  journey  up  the  Seine.  A  regalia 
insignia  of  royal  magnificence  do  these  sculptures 
seem.  Why  should  the  word  "royal" — such  a  truly 
beautiful  word — be  used  solely  to  define  what  apper- 
tains to  the  accident  of  lineage?  Surely  men  who 
could  design  and  execute  so  noble  a  structure  as  this 
Caudebec  church  are  crowned — doubly  crowned, 
since,  for  long  centuries,  men  have  bowed  in  homage 
to  their  genius. 

From  the  mellow  face  of  the  great  spire  the  eye  is 
carried  on  to  the  elaborate  traceries  of  the  windows: 
from  these  one's  gaze  is  fixed  on  all  the  delicate,  in- 
tricate carvings  that  make  the  spire  rise  up  like 
wrought  lace-work,  transfixed,  by  some  miracle,  to 
the  solidity  of  stone.  France,  in  this,  its  finest  spire 
save  one,  La  Tour  de  Beurre,  at  Rouen,  carries  its 
lilies  to  the  altar  of  the  skies,  since  some  of  the 
traceries  are  in  the  shape  of  a  fleur-de-lis. 

There  are  other  revealing  notes  by  which  the 

carvers  have  confessed  their  labors  were  not  done 

211 


merely  for  the  day's  pay;  there  were  love  and  piety 
expressed,  as  well  as  grace  and  novelty  of  design, 
in  the  long  parapet  about  the  roof;  these  traceries 
are  an  invocation  to  the  Virgin,  cut  in  stiff  but 
ornamental  Gothic  letters. 

After  three  centuries  of  Gothic  invention,  archi- 
tects were  forced  to  devise  more  and  more  elaborate 
designs.  The  flamboyant  of  the  fifteenth  century 
is  here  merged  into  the  Renaissance  architectural 
style.  Pugin  will  have  it  that  much  of  the  orna- 
mental part  of  the  church,  its  windows  and  carvings, 
belong  rather  to  the  domestic  than  to  an  ecclesiastical 
order  of  architecture. 

The  church  indeed  was  finished  during  the  reign 
of  Francis  I,  when  the  floridity  of  the  Renaissance 
was  becoming  the  great  fashion  in  building.  But 
the  Renaissance  ornamentation  does  not  in  the  least 
affect  the  general  design.  There  is  true  Gothic  unity 
and  harmony  in  the  church,  as  a  whole. 

The  great  front  portal  is,  or  was,  an  open  book  by 
which  the  laity  could  read  their  Bible  history  in  a 
language  not  dead,  but  in  the  living  language  of  the 
illustrated,  sacred  story.  Now  that  most  of  the 
saints,  the  apostles,  and  the  heavenly  hierarchy  are 
headless,  the  biblical  grouping  and  meaning  must  be 
guessed.  The  wealth  of  carving,  however,  lavished 
on  every  inch  of  this  exterior  proves  that  neither 
time  nor  patience  was  valued,  as  socialists  have 
decided  labor  should  be  in  our  days.  With  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  books,  the  multiplicity  of  sacred  statues 

is  as  reduced  a  population  on  church  fronts  as  statis- 

212 


CHURCH   OP   NOTRE    DAME   AT   CAUDEBEC 


CAUDEBEC 

tics  prove  the  birth-rate  has  fallen  off  since  the 
preaching  of  the  doctrine  of  Malthus.  Every 
church,  the  simplest  as  well  as  the  most  elaborate,  is 
the  more  precious,  therefore,  since  there  is  no  re- 
lighting the  tapers  of  faith  that  produced  Norman 
and  Gothic  masterpieces. 

The  beautiful  geometric  design  of  the  rose- window, 
below  the  roof,  on  the  western  front,  sends  one  into  the 
interior  of  the  church  to  see  the  much-praised  glass. 

On  entering  the  side  porch  one  is  impressed  at 
once  by  the  singular  lightness  and  brilliancy  of  the 
interior.  The  genial  glow  from  the  beautiful  stained- 
glass  windows  permeates  the  whole  edifice. 

It  may  be  because  the  figures,  motives,  and  com- 
position of  the  figures  in  these  charming  windows  are 
nearer  to  our  own  era  than  the  earlier  thirteenth- 
century  glass;  whatever  the  reason,  these  figures  are 
peculiarly  appealing.  In  color  many  of  the  windows 
are  extraordinary.  There  are  combinations  of  deep 
orange,  yellows,  and  blues,  also  of  purples  and  blues 
that  produce  unusual  polychrome  effects,  giving  to 
the  side  aisles  and  nave  the  gaiety  one  might  look 
for  in  a  Renaissance  banqueting-hall  rather  than  in 
a  sacred  edifice. 

The  singular  and  original  perspective  in  the  Lady 
Chapel  has  always  excited  the  curiosity  of  architects, 
its  peculiar  construction  having  been  a  matter  of 
discussion  for  some  centuries.  The  Entombment  of 
Christ  is  chiefly  interesting  as  proving  the  contrast 
between  the  earlier  sculptural  and  more  modern 

work.     Christ's  figure  is  expressive  and  full  of  feeling. 
15  213 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in 

It  is  said  that  Caudebec  is,  and  has  been  for  long 
years,  an  irresistible  magnet  to  draw  our  English 
cousins  to  delight  in  its  attractions.  "  C'est  le  rendez- 
vous des  Anglais  en  etc, "  a  native  of  Caudebec  said  to 
me,  with  a  smile,  and  there  was  an  anticipatory 
glitter  of  hope  in  his  bright  eyes.  He  was  counting 
the  sous  that  would  pour  into  his  till  when  the 
tourist  season  began. 

There  are  the  best  of  reasons  for  English  lovers  of 
beauty  bending  their  steps  toward  Caudebec.  We 
have  ever  a  sentimental  leaning  for  that  which  we 
once  owned. 

Caudebec,  after  a  resistance  of  only  six  days,  in 
1419,  gave  herself  up  to  the  English,  and  began  her 
reign  as  a  fortified  English  stronghold.  She  became 
French  again  only  after  Charles  VII,  having  been 
taught  how  to  fight  for  his  kingdom  by  a  woman — a 
girl,  rather — was  able  to  rescue  this  part  of  his  do- 
main from  English  ownership.  The  historians  re- 
cord "a  solemn  entry  into  the  town  of  Caudebec 
by  the  French  king." 

It  is  well  for  us,  in  these  hectic  days  succeeding  the 
most  scientifically  waged  war  of  all  history,  with 
northern  France  and  most  of  Belgium  the  all  but 
ruined  victims  of  German  systematized,  destructive 
design,  to  remember  what  befell  France  in  that 
fifteenth  century. 

Henry  V  of  England  may  be  likened  in  a  certain 
sense  to  Kaiser  William.  He  was  a  far  greater  man 

214 


CAUDEBEC 

than  the  German  Emperor — but  he,  as  did  William, 
meant  to  own  France,  and  to  crush  her,  if  necessary. 
In  point  of  character  Henry  had  far  more  traits  in 
common  with  William  the  Conqueror  than  with 
William  the  Runaway.  At  seventeen  Henry  was 
already  a  dreaded  leader  of  men  and  of  armies.  He 
first  subdued  his  own  subjects  to  his  rule;  he  then 
turned  to  crush  out  French  intrigues  with  the 
Lancastrian  House. 

First,  Henry  captured  Harfleur.  This  key  to  the 
Seine  led  the  way  to  all  the  rich  Norman  lands — 
with  Rouen  as  its  richest  prize,  with  Paris  and  Calais 
beyond.  All  of  these  great  possessions,  in  the  end, 
were  his — with  eleven  thousand  of  the  nobles  of 
France  dead,  most  of  them  left  rotting  on  the  slimy 
field  of  Agincourt. 

Caudebec,  as  we  have  seen,  was  one  of  the  earlier 
captures  of  English  prowess.  The  town  was  greatly 
fortified;  it  became  an  English  stronghold  with  its 
walls,  towers,  ramparts,  and  moats. 

When  Charles  VII  was  able,  during  his  long  reign 
of  thirty-two  years,  to  see  his  France  freed  from  Eng- 
lish rule  and  English  terrors,  in  what  a  state  of  waste, 
of  devastation,  was  he  to  find  his  all  but  ruined 
kingdom!  Normandy,  that  had  been  to  England 
what  Egypt  had  been  to  Rome — its  granary  of 
abundance — had  been  despoiled,  ravished  of  its 
women  and  children,  its  strong  men  dead  of  famine, 
or  forgotten  in  prison  dungeons,  or  deported  to 
England,  were  they  skilled  workmen. 

This  lovely,  prosperous  Pays  de  Caux,  the  province 

215 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  all  these  rich  and  flourishing  Norman  towns  and 
cities,  had  been  despoiled  of  men  and  of  moneys  to 
the  point  that  hungry  wolves  were  the  armies  that 
succeeded  the  armies  of  the  English  conqueror. 

Henry,  having  won  Paris  in  a  single  day,  and 
Rouen  only  after  its  superb  resistance  of  six  months, 
died  in  his  Chateau  de  Vincennes,  in  August,  1422. 
On  his  death-bed  he  bade  his  great  chiefs  never  to 
give  up  Normandy. 

Caudebec  must  wait  twenty-seven  years  for  its 
deliverance.  Once  more  Norman  and  French,  and 
Norman  energy,  Norman  vigor,  Norman  enterprise 
sprang  to  force  their  way  to  prosperity  once  more. 
In  an  incredibly  short  time  Caudebec's  hats  and 
gloves  had  won  the  prize  for  excellence  in  the 
European  markets. 

Caudebec  still  sits,  in  high  noon,  under  the  rich 
Normandy  sunshine,  with  now  fewer  attractions 
than  in  those  turbulent  days  when  she  was  a  citadel, 
a  capital  important  enough  to  make  men  love  her, 
suffer  for  her,  and  with  great  captains  and  kings 
fighting  for  her  possession. 

But  her  stock  of  drawing-attractions  is  still  poten- 
tially important.  She  is  still  the  complete  little  town, 
with  her  streets  embellished  with  authentic  four- 
teenth-, fifteenth-,  and  sixteenth-century  houses — 
houses  which  witnessed  the  "solemn  entry"  of 
Charles  VII;  houses  through  whose  narrow  windows 
the  existent  citizens  stood,  cheering  till  they  were 
hoarse  the  beloved  king  who  was  the  first  demo- 
cratic king  since  Henri  IV  practised  what  his  alter 

216 


CAUDEBEC 

ego,  Sully,  had  promulgated  as  a  principle,  "Chacun 
chez  soiy  Chacun  pour  soi." 

The  old  curving  streets,  the  antique  houses,  are 
the  survivors  of  wars,  sieges,  dynasties,  the  Revo- 
lution, the  Terror,  Waterloo,  Sedan,  and  the  great 
war.  As  ancestors  hand  on  to  their  descendants  a 
treasured,  ancestral  possession,  old  Caudebec  trans- 
mits to  us  the  jewel  of  her  church. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


A   GREAT   ABBAYE — ST.-WANDRILLE 


morning  of  our  departure  from  Caudebec  was 
•*•  one  of  those  festival  days  of  summer  which  make 
one  believe  in  the  value,  in  the  immense  importance 
of  being  alive.  Every  act,  the  least  as  well  as  the 
gravest,  seemed  to  assume  portentous  proportions. 
There  was  before  us  the  joy  of  setting  out,  of  going 
forth  once  more  to  unknown  parts  of  la  douce  France. 
The  tune  of  life  and  the  day  were  to  sing  in  concert. 
"You  have  a  beautiful  day  for  your  journey, 
Mesdames,"  said  our  courteous  host.  If  it  be  true 
that  the  art  of  living  is  understood  nowhere  as  it 
is  in  France,  it  is  also  equally  true  that  good  manners 
are  still  to  be  met  along  French  roads  and  in  inns 
that  are  "far  from  the  great  world." 

Our  host  was  offering  us  not  only  his  gracious 
courtesy;  he  was  placing  his  intelligence  at  our  dis- 
posal. Having  learned  we  proposed  to  make  a  day 
of  it — a  whole  long  day  in  the  open  air — "Then, 
Madame,  you  had  best  take  a  luncheon  along. 
There  is  no  good  restaurant  until  you  reach  Duclair. 

218 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

And  as  these  ladies  do  not  count  the  hours  by  the 
clock  when  they  are  visiting  old  houses  and  fine 
churches — "  The  clever  innkeeper  never  finished 
his  sentence.  His  meaning  smile  and  his  quick  eyes, 
that  had  conveyed  more  than  he  said,  told  us  he 
knew  more  of  our  ways  than  could  be  guessed  by 
the  more  or  less  revealing  fact  of  the  day  and  night 
spent  under  his  roof.  If  you  have  a  secret  to  keep, 
if  you  desire  to  cloak  your  ways,  or  your  habits, 
or  even  your  tastes,  do  not  prolong  your  stay  in  a 
French  provincial  town.  There  are  no  eyes  sharper, 
there  is  no  scent  more  keen  in  hounding  secrecy  to 
earth,  there  is  no  one  who  has  the  lay  detective's 
talent  more  highly  developed  than  a  clever  pro- 
vincial in  a  little,  dull  French  town.  Where  nothing 
happens  that  is  not  known  in  an  hour  to  every  one 
every  stranger  is  a  "suspect"  unless  he  comes  under 
the  welcome  guise  of  a  traveler. 

It  was  for  an  increase,  indeed,  in  the  regiment  of 
le  touriste  qui  passe  that  our  interesting  host  was  now 
sighing.  He  had  openly  confessed  that  he  saw  us 
depart  with  regret.  He  was  buoyed  up,  however, 
he  quickly  added,  by  the  inflated  hope  of  our  return 
"next  year  and  with  many  more  Americans." 

"You  see,  Madame,"  he  proceeded  to  explain, 
with  his  engaging  air  of  sincerity,  "it  is  only  the 
Americans  who  can  really  help  us."  It  was  our  turn 
to  smile  a  meaning  smile.  It  was  translated  as  being 
a  smile  of  pride — pride  that  held  in  it  the  virtue  of 
a  promise.  "Yes — once  the  Americans  come  then 
France  will  begin  to  live  again.  To  Germany  they 

219 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

will  not  go.  No.  To  where,  then?  To  us — to 
France  they  will  come.  A  little  time  they  may  spend 
in  England,  perhaps,  but  it  is  here — in  our  beautiful 
country  that  has  been  so  outraged — so  ravished — 
it  is  here  where  their  own  American  soldiers  have 
fought  they  will  come.  The  car  will  shake  her  less 
if  it  be  placed  thus." 

It  was  to  a  dusty,  golden-hued  bottle  our  kind 
host  referred,  and  not  to  either  of  us,  the  forerun- 
ners of  the  tourist  horde  who  were  to  save  France. 

The  painstaking  owner  of  the  inn  had  been  as 
careful  of  our  comfort  as  though  he  felt  that  every 
delicate  attention  he  could  pay  us  was  to  be  in  the 
nature  of  an  advertisement  of  the  "good-wine-that- 
needs-no-bush "  order  to  all  America.  He  had  seen 
to  the  secure  placing  of  the  full  luncheon-basket; 
he  had  blocked  the  bottle  of  wine  between  a  bag  and 
a  suit-case;  and  he  had  handled  the  bottle  as  though 
it  were  an  infant  in  arms — as  do  all  men  who  know 
good  wine.  Having  paid  us  such  parting  courtesies, 
and  having  as  delicately  conveyed  to  us  our  mission 
in  life — for  the  coming  year — there  was  nothing  left 
for  the  most  perfect  of  hosts  than  to  make  us  his 
farewell  salute.  It  was  given  in  finished  French  form 
— from  the  waist. 

"We  have  left  a  bit  of  old  France  behind  us,"  I 
sighed. 

"And  look — it  might  have  been  the  boat  on  which 
Madame  Sevigne  crossed  the  Loire  three  hundred 
years  ago." 

The  bac  crossing  from  the  opposite  shore  might 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

indeed  have  claimed  ancestral  descent  from  those 
diligences  a  I'eau  that  took  days  to  carry  the  traveler 
from  towns  reached,  in  our  day,  in  a  few  hours. 

The  barge  now  nearing  the  Caudebec  shores  was 
carrying  two  char-a-bancs,  one  laden  with  pigs, 
the  other  with  hens  in  coops,  peasants,  a  baby  in  a 
perambulator,  a  huge  touring-machine  with  two 
English  officers,  and  a  cart  with  a  towering  mound 
of  hay.  Yes,  eliminate  the  automobile  and  per- 
ambulator, or  change  them  into  one  of  the  seven- 
teenth-century carriages,  with  their  huge  wheels, 
multiple  springs,  pockets,  silken -curtains,  and  deep, 
feather-tufted  seats,  and  to  a  court  lady  of  Louis 
XIV's  reign  there  would  have  been  no  "novelty" 
to  talk  about  in  Paris  in  thus  crossing  the  Seine  in 
a  barge  with  a  tortoise-like  speed.1 


ii 

In  approaching  the  famous  Abbaye  of  St.-Wan- 
drille — Maeterlinck's  home  for  many  years — the  road 
itself  seems  in  collusion  with  the  witchery  of  the 
abbaye  to  create  what  our  French  friends  so  admi- 
rably define  as  un  etat  d'esprit. 

On  leaving  Caudebec — that  ancient  town  on  the 
broad  highway  of  the  Seine,  a  town  that,  in  its  way, 
is  also  a  highway  between  the  two  ports  of  Rouen 
and  Havre — and  on  entering  the  little  secluded 

1  For  automobilists  desiring  to  take  to  the  road  to  reach  either  Trou- 
ville,  Deauville,  or  Caen,  by  this  lac  one  can  join  the  highroad  at  Pont- 
Audemer,  skirting  the  edge  of  the  Bretonne  forest,  along  the  Seine 
shores.  It  Is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  roads  in  Normandy. 

321 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

hamlet  of  St.-Wandrille,  one  has  the  sensation  of 
having  passed  from  a  scene  pulsating  with  life  to 
one  more  or  less  dead  and  inanimate.  Preserved,  as 
it  were,  under  glass  as  a  model  for  a  scene-painter 
or  a  novelist  in  search  of  a  setting  for  a  crime  or  an 
elopement,  the  houses  of  the  hamlet  are  gathered 
close  together,  as  though  for  purposes  of  protection, 
or  possibly  for  conspiracy. 

A  great  portal  looms  into  view.  Its  arms,  its 
deep-vaulted  entrance,  its  two  pavilions,  and  its 
turrets  rise  up  with  singular  impressiveness.  Such 
a  portal  would  give  to  any  road  a  grand  air.  Only 
princes,  in  all  the  splendor  of  their  plumes  and 
slashed  doublets,  mounted  on  stately  steeds  (one 
could  not  use  the  simpler  noun  of  "horse"  to  desig- 
nate a  mount  stepping  beneath  so  stately  an  en- 
trance), and  these  stately  steeds  should  have  golden 
harnesses. 

The  road  that  keeps  on,  beyond  this  majestic  pile, 
proves  what  a  mere  road  can  achieve  with  a  group  of 
superb  trees,  it  is  true,  for  decoration.  Opposite  the 
great  entrance  to  the  Abbaye  of  St.-Wandrille 
there  is  a  most  effective  grouping  of  the  rear  end  of 
a  low  Norman  church.  The  choir  windows — now 
enlarged,  we  were  to  find  later — had  some  charming 
stained  glass  by  Lusson.  The  sixteenth-century 
chapel,  in  the  happy  setting  of  old  elms  and  lime- 
trees,  made  a  remarkably  harmonious  ensemble. 

There  was  a  feature  even  more  alluring  than  the 
effective  grouping  made  by  the  road,  the  church,  and 
the  uprising  grandeur  of  the  abbaye  entrance.  There 

222 


H   s 
a   H 


5  3 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

was  a  homely  look  about  it  all.  There  was 
something  surprisingly,  unexpectedly  English  in  the 
picture. 

The  two  English  historians,  Freeman  and  Green, 
will  tell  you,  at  length,  the  raison  d'etre  of  certain 
aspects  of  French  roads  and  French  fields,  and  why 
they  recall  to  Englishmen  England's  landscapes. 
The  Normans,  when  they  came  to  England,  brought 
with  them  the  lessons  taught  them  by  the  Angles 
in  the  early  Anglo-Saxon  invasions  to  Gaul.1  And 
French  historians  will  complacently  descant,  in  their 
turn,  on  the  effective  English  imitation  of  purely 
Normandy  lanes,  Normandy  hedges,  and  Norman 
ways  of  tree-planting,  by  English  farmers,  to  be  seen 
in  England. 

Here  was  a  road  and  a  setting  that  proved  any 
model  historians  may  claim  for  it.  I  mark  it  as  one 
unique  in  combining  both  artistic  charm,  architect- 
ural beauty  and  interest,  while  preserving  singularly 
homelike  features.  One  could  build  a  house  and 
settle  down  in  such  surroundings,  and  feel  at  home 
in  it,  although  in  a  foreign  land. 

St.-Wandrille,  as  did  all  the  founders  of  those 
medieval  monasteries,  must  have  chosen  the  site  of  his 
abbaye  because  of  some  such  commendable  feeling. 
There  could  be  no  sense  of  exile  in  so  lovely  and 
picturesque  a  spot.  To  insure  against  monotony, 

1  "As  we  pass  now  through  Normandy  it  is  English  history  which  is 
around  us  ...  The  very  look  of  its  country  and  its  people  seem  familiar 
to  us.  ...  The  fields  about  Caen,  their  dense  hedgerows,  their  elms, 
their  apple  orchards,  are  the  very  picture  of  an  English  countryside." 
— Green,  History  of  the  English  People,  vol.  i,  p.  107. 

223 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

there  were  the  undulating  hills;  for  fields  and  past- 
ures there  was  all  the  land  available  from  the  ab- 
baye  inclosures  to  Caudebec — with  Caudebec  itself, 
at  one  time,  under  the  sovereignty  of  the  convent. 
There  was  also  a  certain  security  from  pirates,  since 
the  buildings  were  not  directly  on  the  river.  With 
all  these  advantages,  the  Benedictine  brotherhood 
not  only  prospered,  but  they  waxed  rich.  The 
robber  barons  of  that  remote  eleventh  and  the  suc- 
ceeding centuries  could  always  ransom  their  future 
from  too  prolonged  purgatorial  discomforts  by  lavish 
gifts  to  a  monastery.  Princes  and  kings,  as  well  as 
lesser  grandees,  donated  vast  sums  to  convents,  built 
them,  and  gave  them  great  privileges,  as  in  our  day 
a  Rothschild  or  a  Rockefeller  endows  a  college  or 
founds  a  hospital.  Ways  of  giving  change  with  the 
centuries.  But  as  "the  poor  ye  have  always  with 
you,"  so  it  seems  are  there  always,  though  never 
enough,  princely  givers  to  help  the  underworld  to 
become,  in  time,  the  upper  world. 


m 

A  modest  door,  beyond  which,  in  a  tangle  of  brush- 
wood and  drooping  trees,  one  reads  the  warning  sign, 
"Visitors  are  admitted  to  inspect  the  abbaye  between 
the  hours  of  ten  and  twelve,  and  from  two  to  six," 
produced  an  unpleasant  awakening  to  the  fact  that 
we  might  have  nearly  an  hour  to  wait.  In  our 
eagerness  to  have  the  whole  day  for  our  outing,  we 
had  forgotten  that  in  France  no  one's  toilet,  whether 

224 


A   GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

it  be  that  of  old  or  young  ladies,  of  old  churches  or 
abbayes,  is  made  before  ten  in  the  morning.  This 
universal  custom  dates,  I  imagine,  from  the  grand 
old  Bourbon  days.  The  great  world,  whose  passion 
for  cards  and  high  stakes  kept  torches  and  candles 
blazing  half  the  night,  must  naturally  prolong  its 
beauty  sleep  into  the  best  hours  of  the  morning. 

Remembering  that  a  conventual  lif  e  set  an  example 
of  quite  other  matutinal  customs,  I  boldly  rang  the 
tinkling  bell.  If  the  odor  of  sanctity  no  longer  per- 
vaded the  abbaye  ruins,  perhaps  a  lingering  monkish 
courtesy  might  win  us  admission. 

The  tinkling  bell  had  long  since  ceased  to  agitate, 
feebly,  the  still,  abbatial  air.  Slow,  uncertain  steps 
finally  assured  us  that  our  appeal  was  to  meet  some 
sort  of  answer.  The  answer  came,  given  with  a 
sweetness  and  gentle  kindliness  which  made  us 
ashamed  of  having  doubted  of  our  reception.  "Mais 
oui,  ces  dames  sont,  il  est  vrai,  tr&s  matinales" — was 
the  quiet  welcome.  The  old,  dried,  thin  lips  mur- 
mured, "as  I  am  here  to  show  visitors  the  way  about 
— one  hour  is  the  same  to  me  as  another.  If  the 
ladies  will  come  this  way — " 

"This  way"  led  us  directly  to  a  towering  archway 
of  trees. 

"You  are  standing  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
church — in  the  nave,"  was  the  startling  announce- 
ment. This  was  assuredly  a  remarkably  quick 
jump,  as  it  were,  from  even  a  romantic  highroad  to 
a  church  so  completely  destroyed  one  must  sub- 
stitute nature's  arches  for  the  original  vaulting. 

225 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

At  our  left,  however,  there  was  a  beautiful  Gothic 
ruin  still  rich  in  exquisite  carvings. 

Our  gentle  guide  led  us  from  this  last  vestige  of 
the  older  thirteenth-century  church  to  the  cloister. 

Under  these  fine  Gothic  arches  it  was  easier  for 
imagination  to  recreate  the  antique  splendor  of  the 
famous  abbaye,  of  its  misty  and  mystic  beginning  in 
the  year  645;  of  St.-Wandrille  looming  out  of  the 
shadows  of  that  dim  past,  drawing  hither  men, 
scholars,  poets,  and  writers  turning  monks  to  dedi- 
cate their  lives  to  God  and  to  the  furthering  of  letters 
and,  later,  of  science  and  literature. 

And  yet — and  yet — what  air,  in  among  these 
remaining  proofs  of  St.-Wandrille's  former  splendor, 
were  we  breathing?  What  was  the  still,  pursuing 
shadow  that  followed,  blurring  the  bright  gold  of 
the  sunshine?  What  was  the  burden  of  depression 
that  seemed  to  have  settled  down  upon  our  very 
shoulders?  Whence  came  the  melancholy  we  could 
not  shake  off? 

An  indescribable  sadness,  like  a  pall,  haunted  the 
branches  of  the  drooping  trees.  The  grass-grown 
alleys,  leading  to  the  park,  wore  a  tragic  air.  What 
unnamed,  what  unrecorded  crimes  had  been  com- 
mitted here,  leaving  their  haunting  shadows  to  people 
so  fair,  yet  so  desolate  a  realm? 

How  still,  how  mournful  is  the  silence! 

Though  the  decorating  glory  of  the  August  sun 
descends  like  a  cascade  of  light  on  weeping  elms,  on 
ruined  shrines,  and  on  delicate  carvings,  there  is  no 
lifting  of  that  pall  of  sadness. 

226 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

Then  one  remembers  why  ghosts  walk  here,  in 
these  grounds,  under  all  these  arches  of  St.-Wandrille 
in  clear  daylight. 

In  this  pulseless  air  Melisande  has  relived  her 
strange,  enigmatic  existence.  She  came  to  life  again 
in  this  "extraordinary  stillness."  The  author  of 
her  creation  heard  here  also  the  very  "water  sleep- 
ing." Sorrow-stricken  from  her  birth,  she  who  could 
not  smile  found  herself  once  more  a  wanderer 
among  "all  these  sad  forests  without  light." 

One  follows  the  fugitive,  illusive  creature  from  her 
entering,  with  Goland,  into  the  ancestral  chateau, 
to  learn  what  love  is,  and  to  meet  the  cruel  fate  that 
awaits  her. 

One  single  night  of  ecstasy  was  hers.  Yonder  is 
the  chateau,  against  which,  in  clear  moonlight,  her 
lover  sees  her.  Her  unbound  tresses  sweeping  the 
old  walls'  surface  Pelleas  thought  was  a  "sunbeam," 
so  golden  was  their  color. 

"Penche-toi,  penche-toi,  que  je  voie  tes  cheveux 
denoues,"  cries  her  lover. 

And  woman-like,  moved  by  this  mysterious  soul  of 
woman  that  seems  to  typify  the  soul — the  errant, 
wilful,  mysterious  breath  of  life  that  stirs  the  souls 
of  all  women — Melisande  obeys.  She  leans  farther 
and  farther  out,  till  the  golden  rain  of  her  hair 
inundates  her  lover.  As  he  grasps  the  glorious 
tresses  they  seem  to  him  alive.  "They  quiver,  they 
palpitate  in  my  hands  like  golden  birds."  And  the 
still  night  heard  the  burning  kisses  "along  the 
thousand  golden  links"  fall  like  another  rain. 

227 


Until  one  wanders  among  these  wind-shaped  trees, 
until  one  has  felt  the  witchery  of  the  melancholy 
that  pervades  St.-Wandrille,  one  cannot  realize  how 
to  a  poet,  to  a  playwright,  the  whole  place  spoke 
with  tongues  of  inspiration.  Maeterlinck  trans- 
lated the  spirit  that  dwells  in  certain  isolated,  remote 
corners  of  the  world.  St.-Wandrille  is  the  very 
incubator  of  mysticism.  Never  did  a  mystic  find 
so  perfect  a  frame  in  which  to  place  for  us  the  por- 
trait of  the  mysterious.  The  mise-en-scene  was  set 
here,  centuries  ago.  The  chateau,  the  still  forest, 
the  very  pool,  the  abandoned  fountain  "that  opens 
the  eyes  of  the  blind, "  are  all  here.  The  scene  was 
awaiting  only  the  genius  who  could  animate  it  with 
living  souls. 

Maeterlinck,  the  conjurer,  is  no  longer  here.  He 
has  followed  his  own  Blue  Bird.  The  fresh  happiness 
that  has  come  to  him  would  not  build  its  nest  in 
such  drear  surroundings.  The  haunting  memories  of 
other  days,  perhaps,  more  poignant  than  those  of 
love  and  of  lovers  one  builds  on  a  page,  would  have 
been  "sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune  and  harsh." 

Representations  of  both  "Macbeth"  and  "Pelleas 
and  Melisande"  were  given  in  the  romantic  setting  of 
the  abbaye  cloisters,  its  vaulted  galleries,  its  melan- 
choly park  and  chateau,  during  the  long  lease  of  the 
property  held  by  Maeterlinck.  The  picturesque  set- 
ting and  staging  of  the  two  great  plays  were  inspired 
by  the  talent  of  Mme.  Georgette  Leblanc,  the  roles 
of  Lady  Macbeth  and  Melisande  being  interpreted 
by  her. 

228 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

IV 

I  remembered  to  have  heard  the  "witchery"  of  the 
spectacle  of  "Macbeth,"  as  played  at  night  at  St.- 
Wandrille,  extolled  one  winter's  night  in  a  great 
French  chateau — one  of  Sully's  chateaux — the  one 
in  which  the  famous  minister  died.  The  wind  was 
howling  as  wind  howls  in  La  Beauce;  the  flaming 
logs  before  us,  that  made  our  faces  burn  and  yet 
could  not  warm  our  backs,  so  vast  was  the  huge 
salon  in  which  we  sat,  forced  us  to  bend  over  the 
yawning  fireplace.  These  logs  would  blaze  up  every 
now  and  then,  as  a  fiercer  blast  than  common  swept 
down  the  chimney  and  swirled  about  the  massive 
walls,  as  though  in  hot  anger  at  finding  such  great 
towers  and  walls  in  their  path. 

The  owner  of  this  magnificence  was  a  slender, 
sensitive-faced  youth  of  twenty-two.  He  was  the 
child  of  the  two  centuries — of  the  latter  end  of  the 
nineteenth  that  gave  him  birth  and  of  the  beginning 
of  the  twentieth  that  had  formed  him.  He  had  the 
delicate  shiver  of  responsive  intensity  to  the  mas- 
ters that  ruled  then  in  French  art  and  letters.  He 
believed  in  the  art  of  Huysmans  and  Maeterlinck; 
in  music,  Debussy  was  his  god.  It  was  because  of 
Maeterlinck  be  had  gone  to  hear  Georgette  Le- 
blanc  "do"  Lady  Macbeth  at  the  famous  abbaye. 

He  had  forgotten,  as  he  described  the  play,  how 
cold  "all  the  back  of  me  is";  he  was  so  intent  in 
delivering  his  impressions  of  the  curious,  "the  in- 
teresting yet  strangely  disappointing  spectacle," 

16  229 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

that  he  would  rise  every  now  and  then,  would  give 
an  imitative  gesture,  would  illustrate,  with  singular 
eloquence,  the  effects  produced  by  certain  situations 
and  dialogues  in  Shakespeare's  masterpiece. 

"You  cannot  imagine  how  it  gained,  yet  how  much 
of  the  beauty  was  lost,  by  seeing  it  not  staged  but 
set — set  now  in  the  cloisters,  now  in  the  open,  under 
the  great  trees,  with  trembling  lights  touching  now 
robes,  now  her  pale  face,  now  a  bit  of  sculpture — 
a  nymph,  a  satyr,  or  a  beautiful  bit  of  Gothic  carv- 
ing, lighted  up,  pallid  figures,  raised  from  the  dead 
of  the  night,  only  to  die  away  into  gloom,  into 
nothingness." 

Half  the  night  was  spent,  I  remember,  in  listening 
to  the  impressions  which  this  unforgetable  represent- 
ation of  the  famous  masterpiece  had  made  on  de 
Pontoi's  sensitive,  poetic  mind.  So  vivid  was  his 
rendering,  so  artistic  his  presentment  of  the  scenic 
surroundings,  so  quick  had  he  been  to  seize  the 
more  illusive,  suggestive  notes  of  the  great  play,  I 
was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  here  was  indeed 
another  young  and  gifted  artist  in  the  making. 

In  going  forth  from  the  abbaye,  along  the  road  that 
beckoned,  leading  us  up  among  sloping  fields,  shaded 
groves,  and  hills  riding  away  to  the  blue  seas  of  the 
skies — in  following  the  road  my  mind  was  full  of 
that  dear  boy,  of  his  charm,  of  his  gifts,  and  of  his 
death.  He  gave  his  young  life  to  his  country. 
Not  in  "Flanders  field,"  but  in  Alsace,  at  Thann, 
he  lies.  The  charming  talent  that  might  have  fol- 
lowed Maeterlinck's  search  for  the  illusive,  the  mys- 

230 


A  GREAT  ABBAYE— ST.-WANDRILLE 

terious,  in  this  world  of  shadows  was  offered  up  as 
his  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  France,  that  her  genius 
might  pass  on,  as  a  lighted  torch,  to  other  unborn 
generations. 


The  romantic  story  of  the  Marquis  of  Stackpool, 
one  that  years  ago  all  England  talked  about  over 
the  teacups,  is  one  inseparably  linked  with  the  beau- 
ties and  the  ruins  of  the  abbaye. 

Charmed  by  the  melancholy  and  the  pathetic 
abandonment  of  St.-Wandrille,  the  marquis  bought 
the  grounds  and  buildings.  Lover  of  architecture, 
dreamer,  enthusiast,  the  English  nobleman  devoted 
his  talents,  his  time,  and  his  fortune  to  the  restora- 
tion of  the  great  pile.  The  Beaux-Arts  and  French 
connoisseurs  will  tell  you  he  had  better  have  left 
the  ruins  as  they  were,  since  in  several  of  the  at- 
tempted restorations  architectural  crimes  were  com- 
mitted. Mistaken  as  were  some  of  these  laudable 
efforts,  at  least  for  several  years  the  joys  that  are 
the  recompense  of  the  restorer  were  the  reward  of 
the  intrepid  and  generous-minded  marquis. 

St.-Wandrille  seems  to  carry,  along  with  its  charm, 
the  mystery  of  fatality.  With  its  owners,  all,  for  a 
time,  appears  to  go  well.  Then  the  Sisters  Three, 
having  decided  on  the  ultimate  fate  of  a  victim, 
proceed  to  take  their  toll  of  human  happiness. 

When  the  Marquis  of  Stackpool  lost  his  wife  he 
made  of  her  room,  of  the  chateau  and  abbaye,  indeed, 
her  living  sepulcher.  The  apartments  she  had  graced 

231 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

with  her  gentle  presence  were  left  as  she  had  lived 
in  them.  In  the  cloisters,  under  the  great  trees,  in 
the  park  where  for  years  plans  had  been  eagerly 
discussed  together,  columns  and  walls  the  husband 
and  wife  had  seen  rise  into  strength  and  beauty, 
through  their  joint  taste  and  unflagging  zeal,  each 
step  echoing  along  the  vaulted  cloisters,  every 
lonely  walk  beneath  the  arching  trees,  each  and  every 
stone  that  had  been  their  joint  labor  of  love — such 
memories  were  the  haunting  ghosts  that  finally 
drove  the  marquis  to  make  the  supreme  sacrifice. 
He  made  his  vows  to  the  Benedictine  Order. 

The  greatest  of  all  his  restorations  was  in  the  gift 
he  made  to  his  Order  of  the  abbaye  itself.  With  the 
separation  of  the  church  and  state  the  abbaye  was 
sold,  and  the  present  owner,  who  leased  it  to  M. 
Maeterlinck,  purchased  the  property. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AN  OPEN-AIR   LUNCHEON 

TT  was  good  to  be  out  again  under  heaven's  great 
*•  vault.  The  day,  if  anything,  was  grown  more 
lovely.  The  sun  was  high  and  warm.  There  were 
no  ghosts  under  the  trees  we  had  chosen  for  the 
leafy  aisles  of  our  al  fresco  luncheon.  It  was  a 
sheltered  sanctuary,  but  there  was  gold  in  plenty 
rained  down  on  us  through  the  thick  oak  branches. 
Once  more  we  were  in  the  sunny,  grassy,  gaily 
lighted  world,  where  there  were  no  more  mysterious 
shapes  about  than  ants,  uninvited  guests  to  our  ban- 
quets, and  curious  bees,  wondering  if  hot  coffee  from 
the  thermos,  or  cold  chicken  and  salad,  would  be  a 
satisfactory  substitute  for  hidden  sweets  in  scented 
flowers. 

The  Haut  Sauterne  had  just  been  uncorked  when 
clanking  steps  on  the  road — steps  that  came  down 
with  a  military  rhythm — made  us  lift  our  eyes.  The 
men  swinging  along  the  highroad  brought  us  back 
to  our  own  time  and  to  the  history  of  our  own  day 
with  a  start.  Four  youths  in  the  hideous  cutaway 
caps  which  give  to  every  German  soldier  the  look 
of  an  escaped  convict,  and  their  green  coats  with  the 

233 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

huge  "P"  painted  on  the  dingy  fabric,  left  us  in 
no  doubt  as  to  the  nationality  of  the  group.  These 
German  prisoners  were  followed,  at  a  leisurely  pace, 
by  a  tall,  well-knit,  bright-eyed  French  sergeant, 
spick  and  span  in  his  new  horizon-blues. 

"Bonjour,  Mesdames,"  he  cried,  as  he  gave  us  his 
gallant  salute,  "et  bon  appetit." 

The  bright  eyes  were  fixed  with  unmistakable  envy 
on  our  lifted  glasses. 

Under  such  a  glance,  to  extend  the  hospitality  of 
the  arching  trees  and  to  proffer  a  brimming  glass 
were  surely  but  the  most  elementary  courtesies. 

It  was  an  illuminating  example  of  the  force  that 
lies  in  victory  to  witness  how  easily  our  handsome 
young  sergeant  managed  to  partake  of  an  exceedingly 
hearty  luncheon  and  yet  keep  an  eye  on  his  men. 
With  a  slight  gesture,  to  us  unintelligible,  the 
Frenchman  had  signified  to  the  prisoners  that  they 
were  to  sit  down.  They  plumped  down  on  a  mound 
of  grass  with  machine-like  celerity.  They  huddled 
close  together.  Every  one  of  the  eight  eyes  watched 
us  through  staring  eyes — eyes,  however  fixed  the 
stare,  that  never  once  would  meet  ours. 

The  young  sergeant  stood  straight  and  tall  for  a 
Frenchman;  with  his  gun  slung  across  his  back, 
glass  in  hand,  he  was  not  only  entirely  at  his  ease, 
but  he  was  openly  enjoying  this  unlooked-for  break 
in  the  long  day's  march.  He  and  his  Boches,  he 
explained,  had  come  from  the  country  about  Yvetot. 
The  prisoners  had  been  working  on  the  farms,  and 
were  going  to  others  nearer  Havre.  It  was  dull 

234 


AN  OPEN-AIR  LUNCHEON 

work,  this  "rounding  up"  of  Germans.  Oh-h,  they 
were  docile  enough;  they  gave  no  trouble — but  if 
one  was  alone,  as  he  was,  "it  was  as  well  to  keep  a 
sharp  lookout."  He  always  walked  behind  them — 
"comme  ga  on  est  sur." 

As  he  talked,  and  first  sipped  his  wine,  and  then 
finished  the  glass,  at  a  single  draught,  the  French- 
man's childlike  delight  in  an  audience  became  more 
and  more  apparent.  To  have  the  stage  to  oneself, 
to  be  able  to  give  valuable  information,  and  to  be 
addressing  deux  dames  americaines,  who,  doubtless, 
needed  a  great  many  things  explained  to  them,  was  a 
situation  not  offered  un  beau  gars  every  day  in  the 
week.  To  be  dramatic  is  every  Frenchman's  second 
nature.  A  recital  of  an  adventure  he  had  had  in 
the  earlier  years  of  the  war,  of  a  really  tragic  nature, 
was  given,  after  a  few  courteous  phrases,  with  the 
expressive,  illustrative  gesture,  with  the  fire  of 
gleaming  eyes,  and  the  rising  inflections  that  impart 
to  even  a  simple  narrative  dramatic  intensity. 

He  had  been  telling  us  he  also  had  but  lately 
come  from  Ribecourt.  We  had  asked  from  what 
part  of  France  he  came,  and  he  had  answered,  "from 
Senlis."  We  said  we  had  but  just  returned  from 
that  part  of  the  devastated  regions. 

"Then,  Mesdames,  if  you  saw  all  these  villages 
between  Senlis,  Compiegne,  Roye,  and  Montdidier, 
you  saw  some  terrible  sights.  But  what  one  sees 
now,  horrible  as  it  is,  is  nothing  to  what  went  on 
when  the  Germans  were  in  possession. 

"Tenez!  here  is  what  happened  just  about  some 

235 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  the  villages  you  passed.  I  was  there  after  the 
Germans  had  gone. 

"Not  for  twenty  miles  about  was  a  single  village 
spared — only  one.  All  were  burned,  pillaged  first, 
sacked,  then — ppsst!  flammenwerfer!  All  in  flames 
— all  of  them,  save  that  one!" 

The  sergeant  was  waiting  for  our  query.  His 
instinct  told  him  it  would  come.  We  played  up  to 
his  expectancy. 

"But — why — why  was  one  spared  and  all  the 
others — " 

"Ah!  because,  Madame,  the  Boches  knew  which 
one  to  spare.  They  had  their  reasons.  They 
wanted  information.  They  must  have  it.  So  they 
picked  out  a  village  where  they  saw  the  women 
were  sillier,  more  foolish,  vainer  than  elsewhere. 
They  first  took  away  all  the  men — those  too  old  to 
be  soldiers.  Then  they  played  their  little  game. 
They  began  to  have  orgies — oh,  orgies  that  lasted 
days  and  nights.  And  then  the  women,  crazy  from 
fright  and  drink,  told  them  all  they  wanted  to  hear. 
They  even  sold  their  men." 

We  chorused  an  indignant  protest.  "Surely  no 
Frenchwoman  would  do  that!" 

"I  don't  say  no.  Only — Madame  has  never  seen 
a  German  drunk.  Then  she  cannot  know  what  it  is 
to  be  in  the  power  of  a  beast  unchained — when  he 
is  the  master  in  a  country.  These  brutes  threatened 
to  cripple  their  children,  before  their  eyes,  if  the 
women  didn't  obey  them — in  everything.  And 

Madame  knows  what  they  meant  by  that,"     The 

236 


AN  OPEN-AIR  LUNCHEON 

soldier  stopped.  He  had  lost  all  his  swagger.  His 
easy  assurance  deserted  him.  He  changed  the  topic 
almost  immediately  to  one  less  gruesome.  With 
his  quick  insight  he  perceived  that  our  sun  of  con- 
tent, our  gay  little  hour,  was  darkened.  We  could 
eat,  we  could  laugh  no  more.  Quick  to  seize  the 
atmospheric  change,  our  guest  continued  to  speak  of 
trivial  things.  He  even,  in  an  excess  of  amiable 
comradeship,  helped  us  to  repack  our  luncheon- 
basket.  He  saw  he  had  unwittingly  evoked  emo- 
tions he  could  only  dimly  divine,  but  he  knew  that 
in  attempting,  innocently,  to  add  a  certain  caviar  to 
our  feast  he  had,  in  some  mistaken  way,  mixed, 
instead,  a  corrosive  element. 

The  Germans,  who  had  never  ceased  to  watch — 
slyly,  warily — every  gesture,  each  motion  of  each 
one  of  us,  obviously  concluded  their  watchful  waiting 
had  come  to  an  end.  Seeing  the  chauffeur  leap  into 
his  seat,  after  lifting  the  luncheon-basket  to  the 
baggage  rail,  one  after  another  the  prisoners  rose  up, 
stretching  arms  and  legs. 

"Asseyez-vous — sit  down!  How  dare  you  rise 
before  I  gave  the  order!"  Our  sergeant  was  trans- 
formed. His  order  had  been  given  in  a  voice  of 
rolling  thunder;  every  syllable  had  been  punctuated 
with  oaths  in  which  "dog"  and  "god"  and  uncom- 
plimentary remarks  about  the  maternal  givers  of  life 
to  the  men  were  only  more  loudly  shouted  than  was 
the  command  itself. 

One  thing  I  noticed — the  Frenchman  never 
touched  his  gun.  It  swung  still  along  his  broad 

237 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

back.  As  lie  made  us  his  parting  salute  the  weapon 
was  only  then  grasped,  lightly,  in  his  right  hand. 
With  a  spring,  the  lithe  figure  dashed  across  a  grassy 
mound;  the  sergeant  gave  a  muttered  "Debout — 
marcher9  and  the  Germans  struck  their  military 
stride  and  marched  down  the  dusty  road. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LE  TRAIT — A   GREAT   ENTERPRISE 

quickening  of  our  excited  talk,  the  arguments 
tossed  to  and  fro,  the  rapid  glancing  at  stupen- 
dous questions  it  will  take  centuries  to  answer — this 
effervescence  of  two  minds — of  two  who  had  lived 
in  France  through  all  the  horrors  of  the  war,  from 
its  very  beginning — had  made  us  unconscious  of  all 
else.  That  we  were  leaving  St.-Wandrille;  that  we 
were  traversing  the  same  poetic  road  that  we  had 
taken  in  the  earlier  morning;  that  now  we  were  being 
whirled  into  another  part  of  this  varied,  this  amaz- 
ingly picturesque  Pays  de  Caux — to  this  quick  change 
of  scene  we  had  been  as  indifferent  as  though  we 
had  passed  along  the  countryside  in  a  trance. 

We  came  to  fully  restored  consciousness  with  a 
start.  How  best  to  cure  a  world  in  the  throes  of 
anarchy,  suffering  from  the  disease  of  mortal  ex- 
haustion and  apathy,  when  it  was  not  writhing  in 
the  agonies  of  convulsive  unrest  and  discontent, 
were  questions  left  in  the  air,  so  to  speak.  We  were 
actually  confronting  one  solution  of  our  agitated 
planet's  distemper. 

Our  car's  speed  had  brought  us,  in  an  incredibly 
short  half-hour,  to  Le  Trait. 

239 


It  was  at  Le  Trait  we  returned  from  the  vain  and 
vague  regions  of  argument  to  a  new  world,  to  one 
in  the  very  making.  We  were  confronting  one  of 
the  most  interesting,  most  intelligently  planned 
schemes  for  the  amelioration  of  labor.  We  were  in 
the  midst  of  what  appeared  to  be  a  model  village. 

On  either  side  of  the  road  leading  to  Jumieges — 
the  famous  abbaye — on  this  highroad  there  were 
houses  and  shops,  long  buildings  that  had  the  appear- 
ance of  future  factories,  with  paths  and  lanes  whose 
unsmoothed  roughnesses  announced  their  recent  lay- 
ing out.  Workmen  were  hammering  deafening  blows ; 
whistles  were  sounding;  telegraph  poles,  telephone 
wires  were  being  placed;  and  serious-faced  men  were 
walking  about,  now  stopping  to  consult  on  some  de- 
batable topic,  now  entering  the  near  houses,  or 
emerging  again  to  give  fresh  orders  to  engineers  or 
architects. 

It  was  in  the  houses,  in  their  new,  original  plan- 
ning— in  the  building  of  the  houses,  I  found  my  chief 
interest  centered.  The  bright  red  tiles  of  the  roofs 
were  advanced  on  either  side  of  each  house  to  form 
long  extensions.  The  houses  themselves  were,  in 
character,  a  cross  between  a  bungalow  and  a  modest 
French  farm.  Their  aspect  was  more  than  pleas- 
ing; it  was  attractive.  That  the  working-people 
already  installed  in  those  model  dwellings  consid- 
ered their  homes  worthy  of  the  best,  in  point  of 
decorative  adjuncts,  was  proved  in  the  windows' 
lace  curtains  being  daintily  tied  with  colored  ribbons. 

About  several  of  the  houses  gardens  of  flowers 

240 


LE  TRAIT— A  GREAT  ENTERPRISE 

and  vegetables  were  already  not  only  planted,  but 
the  geraniums,  phlox,  marguerites,  and  dahlias  were 
in  full  bloom,  and  salads,  peas,  beans,  and  turnips 
were  ripe. 

Long  since  we  had  left  the  car,  for  I  had  special 
and  peculiar  reasons  for  my  own  interest  in  this 
capitalistic  experiment.  I  had  listened  to  the  story 
of  its  inception  and  development  and  under  cir- 
cumstances and  in  a  situation  not  easily  forgotten. 

In  the  month  of  early  April,  1918,  the  nights  in 
Paris  were  nights  when  one  spent  more  hours  in  a 
cellar  than  in  one's  bed.  The  enemy  aviators  were 
unceasingly  busy.  Their  accuracy  of  aim  gave  one 
the  hardened  cuirass,  in  time,  of  a  somewhat  fatal- 
istic indifference.  The  cellar  of  a  certain  apartment- 
house  where  I  was  hospitably  given  a  chance  for 
such  semi-security — this  cellar  having  a  graveyard 
climate  of  mingled  mildew  and  penetrating  damp- 
ness— my  hostess  and  I  descended  each  night,  at 
any  hour  the  siren  warned  us  the  Boches  were  about 
to  deluge  Paris  with  bombs — we  descended  to  the 
apartment  of  two  kind  friends,  au  premier.  The 
highly  intelligent  and  remarkably  sagacious  head 
of  the  house  had  discovered  a  certain  corridor  in 
his  apartment  which  promised  to  be  as  "secure  a 
place  as  any  other."  We  were  most  generously 
offered  to  share  the  security  of  the  walled-in  corri- 
dor; for  it  was  the  double  walls  of  the  latter  which 
promised  a  certain  safety  if  "the  house  itself  was 
struck  and  pierced  from  roof  to  cellar  by  an  in- 
cendiary torpedo,"  As  there  were  two  exits  from 

Ml 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

this  narrow,  inclosed  gallery — for  such  it  was — 
there  were  two  chances  of  escape  did  any  projectile 
chance  to  find  its  destructive  path  along  our  chosen 
retreat. 

Long  hours  were  spent  in  that  corridor — some- 
times the  larger  part  of  a  night.  The  hours,  how- 
ever, never  seemed  long,  for  gathered  together  there 
were  the  rare  and  delightful  elements  which,  as 
social  elements,  the  world  mourns  as  having  disap- 
peared with  the  eighteenth  century. 

There  was  an  English  beauty,  who  invariably 
issued  from  her  room  in  an  attire  peculiarly  suited 
to  her  extraordinarily  piquant  style;  she  would 
catch  up  her  warm  otter  fur  coat,  long  and  full, 
wrap  it  about  her,  incase  her  feet,  white  as  the 
Pentelican  marble  feet  of  an  antique  statue,  in  old- 
gold  slippers,  and,  as  a  finish  to  the  simplicity  of  her 
costume,  her  fluffy  brown-robed  Pomeranian  dog  was 
tucked  under  one  arm.  With  the  tossed-together 
luxuriance  of  her  blond  tresses — the  high  light  of  the 
picture — she  was  a  Whistlerian  symphony  in  browns 
and  pale  corn-color. 

There  was  also  Monsieur — her  husband,  in  a  rich, 
sober-toned,  silk  dressing-gown,  looking  as  wide- 
awake and  as  wise  as  Solon,  ready  for  discussion  on 
any  subject,  any  one  of  which  his  brilliant  intellect 
would  illuminate  with  new,  original  lights,  flashed  in 
few  but  eloquent  phrases.  There  was  my  hostess, 
in  her  laces  and  dainty  tea-gown,  responsive  and  as 
mentally  alert  at  three  in  the  morning  as  she  would 
be  at  three  in  the  later  afternoon.  With  beauty  and 

242 


LE  TRAIT— A  GREAT  ENTERPRISE 

talent,  and  with  courage  as  Spartan  as  it  was  uncon- 
scious, who  can  wonder  the  hours  flew?  "Le  seul 
salon  ou  Ton  cause  c*est  le  salon  sous  terre,"  said  some 
witty  Frenchman.  It  is  certain  there  was  a  renewal, 
a  development  of  the  graces  and  the  arts  of  conver- 
sation, under  the  flashing  fire  of  the  German  bombs, 
that  rivaled  the  best  of  talk  embalmed  for  us  in  the 
pages  of  any  one  of  the  eighteenth-century  French  or 
English  memoirs. 

It  was  while  the  ominous  crash  of  near  descending 
bombs  were  startling  the  ear  that  I  first  heard  of  the 
Worms  project. 

Monsieur  X was  one  of  the  partners  of  this 

great  shipping  firm,  at  Havre.  Their  own  losses  had 
been  great.  Their  patriotism  and  business  fore- 
sight and  enterprise  were  but  quickened  by  the 
disaster  that  was  befalling  French  ships.  The 
great  project  born  of  these  losses  and  of  the  vision 
of  France's  maritime  needs  after  the  war  are  best 
told  in  Monsieur  X 's  own  words: 

"The  conception  of  these  shipbuilding  yards  came 
to  Messrs.  Worms  &  Co.  in  1917 — that  is,  at  the 
worst  period  of  the  war.  Their  intention  was  not  to 
build  the  yards  for  'war  purposes,'  but  to  enable 
France  to  increase,  after  the  war,  their  building 
capacity,  which  was  all  the  more  necessary  as  the 
world's  commercial  fleet  was  then  rapidly  decreasing. 
In  those  days  America  had  not  yet  started  to  build 
on  a  large  scale. 

"As  those  yards  were  meant  to  be  a  'peace* 
establishment,  Messrs.  Worms  &  Co.  decided  that 

243 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

they  should  be  laid  down,  not  next  to  a  large  town, 
with  all  its  dangers  and  temptations,  but  in  the 
middle  of  a  healthful  country,  far  away  from  any 
town;  and  they  have  accordingly  chosen  the  best 
site  they  could  find,  along  the  deepest  part  of  the 
Seine,  in  beautiful  scenery,  at  Le  Trait,  which  is 
situated  some  eighteen  miles  from  Rouen  and  some 
forty  miles  from  Havre.  The  small  towns  of 
Caudebec,  on  the  one  side,  and  Duclair,  on  the  other, 
are  four  and  a  half  miles  away.  The  yards  are  on 
the  edge  of  the  forest  of  Le  Trait. 

"There  was,  however,  a  drawback  to  such  a 
situation — that  is,  the  workmen  not  being  able  to 
find  lodgings  in  town,  a  whole  garden  city  had  to  be 
built  for  them  next  to  the  yards. 

"So,  in  addition  to  the  shipbuilding  yards  them- 
selves, which  provide  for  eight  berths,  in  which 
steamers  of  any  size  up  to  eighteen  thousand  tons 
can  be  built;  in  addition,  also,  to  all  the  workshops 
necessary  to  feed  those  eight  berths — there  are, 
among  others,  two  large  halls  of  six  hundred  feet 
each  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  wide — in  addi- 
tion to  the  most  modern  machinery  equipment  which 
is  being  fitted  in  those  yards,  Messrs.  Worms  &  Co. 
are  erecting  a  garden  city  for  the  thirty-five  hundred 
workmen  who  will  be  employed — which  means  that, 
when  completed,  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  months, 
this  garden  city  will  have  a  population  of  twelve 
thousand  souls. 

"Every  house  was  to  be  fitted  with  running 
water,  gas,  and  electricity;  every  family  was  to 

244 


LE  TRAIT— A  GREAT  ENTERPRISE 

have  a  little  piece  of  garden  around  their  house,  to 
grow  their  flowers  and  vegetables.  Every  possible 
comfort  will  be  assured  the  workmen;  also  enter- 
tainments, a  cinema-hall,  sporting  grounds,  etc.,  hav- 
ing been  provided  for.  There  were,  of  course,  to  be 
a  church,  a  hospital,  and  schools  for  children. 

"Although  the  building  of  this  enormous  under- 
taking has  been  slow,  owing  to  the  difficulties 
experienced  during  the  war,  and  even  after,  the  yards 
are  now  practically  completed.  The  building  of  the 
boats  will  be  started  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  and  the 
necessary  houses  have  already  been  erected  for 
several  hundreds  of  workmen." 

In  a  later  conversation  Monsieur  X answered 

a  protest  I  had  made  hi  commenting  on  the  dese- 
cration of  the  superb  forests  of  the  Seine. 

"You  must  resign  yourself  to  see  more  and 
more  of  such  desecrations,  dear  Madam.  The 
cuttings  you  deplore,  as  impairing  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  river,  were  concessions  made,  during 
the  war,  to  our  allies — to  the  English,  to  the  Bel- 
gians. They  as  well  as  we  had  need  of  wood  for 
barracks,  for  the  trenches.  The  war  has  really 
seen  this  new  mine  of  wealth  opened  to  France;  we 
did  not  before  realize  what  a  great  watery  highway 
was  our  Seine — nor  what  ports  could  be  made  along 
her  shores.  In  ten,  in  fifteen  years  you  will  see  the 
shores  covered  with  just  such  industrial  enterprises 
as  ours.  You  cry  out?  Ah!  You  look  upon  the 
Seine  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  artist.  You  wish 
its  architectural  treasures  to  remain  in  their  frames 

17  245 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

— in  among  the  natural  beauties.  We  look  at  the 
river  from  the  point  of  view  of  utility." 

Are  we  to  deplore  this,  the  future  of  the  great 
river? 

Every  model  house  we  passed,  as  we  left  the  garden 
city,  seemed  to  give  us  its  answer. 

Here,  in  this  ideal  situation,  was  the  promise  of  an 
ideal  life  for  the  working-man,  of  his  secure  future 
and  of  that  of  his  children.  Le  Trait  was  the 
enlightened,  progressive  realization  of  capitalistic 
responsibility. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  pure  patriotism,  can  a 
more  eloquent  proof  be  given  of  French  courage,  of 
French  assurance  of  ultimate  victory?  "In  the 
darkest  days  of  the  war"  to  have  conceived  such 
a  great  enterprise  and  to  have  started  the  yards 
are  in  themselves  the  answer  to  every  doubting 
mind.  France's  powers  of  initiative,  of  recuperative 
strength,  are  indeed  inexhaustible. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

JUMlfiGES 


THE  leap  backward  from  a  twentieth-century 
shipbuilding  yard  and  an  ideal  garden  city  to 
an  eleventh-century  abbaye  might  have  been  a 
somewhat  perilous  mental  effort.  We  were,  how- 
ever, as  one  might  say,  in  training. 

As  the  towering  mass  of  the  great  Jumieges  ruins 
rose  up  above  the  long  convent  walls,  the  point  of 
view  was  quickly  adjusted.  There  was,  perhaps,  an 
even  more  instantaneous  response  to  their  grandeur; 
these  Jumieges  ruins,  in  their  long  reign  of  twelve 
centuries,  have  more  than  contributed  their  part  to 
the  glories  of  France. 

On  entering  the  beautiful  park,  the  uprising  mass 
of  the  western  front  of  the  abbaye  confronts  one. 
The  portal,  the  two  superb  towers,  almost  persuade 
one  that  the  abbaye  itself  will  be  found  as  intact  as 
are  the  towers. 

The  impression  produced  at  the  very  first  ap- 
proach to  these  Jumieges  ruins  is  one  of  an  immense 
surprise.  How  is  it  all  the  world  does  not  talk  of 
them,  visit  them,  extol  them  as  other  lesser  great 
architectural  remains  are  lauded? 

247 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  scenic  surroundings  in  themselves  would  lend 
poetic  charm,  as  well  as  a  certain  grandeur,  to  even 
less  noble  an  architectural  survival.  The  great 
trees  of  the  park,  the  orderliness,  the  quiet  beauty  of 
the  surrounding  spaces,  contribute  to  give  a  fitting 
frame  to  these  ecclesiastical  buildings,  that  are 
among  the  most  remarkable  in  France. 

The  building  of  the  churches,  gardens,  abbatial 
palaces,  guard-rooms,  and  libraries  of  Jumieges  has 
followed  the  rise  of  French  power  and  ecclesiastical 
domination;  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  France's  own 
historic  vicissitudes  they  have  been  sacked,  pillaged, 
and  destroyed,  only  to  rise,  phenix-like,  from  their 
ruins. 

The  abbots  who  planned  the  superb  Norman 
abbaye,  whose  towers  and  many  of  whose  walls  are 
still  standing,  must  have  believed  they  were  building 
for  an  earthly  eternity  of  time.  The  earlier  abbaye 
erected  by  St.-Philbert  was  built  on  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  Roman  castrum. 

Two  centuries  later  the  fame  of  the  beauty  and, 
above  all  other  attractions,  the  riches  of  this  original 
monastery  became  the  chosen  scene  of  Norman 
horrors.  Hastings,  the  Dane,  at  the  head  of  an 
army  of  pirates  and  murderers,  attacked  the  Byzan- 
tine-Romanesque church,  robbed  it,  pillaged  the  mon- 
astery, and  massacred  all  but  two  of  its  holy  men. 

There  is  a  touching  and  a  somewhat  romantic  story 
relating  to  the  reappearance  of  these  two  surviving 
brethren.  They  stole  back,  it  appears,  to  the  ruins 
of  their  beloved  church  years  after.  On  a  certain 

248 


JUMlfcGES 

moonlight  night  William  Long-Swords,  having  come 
on  a  hunting  expedition  to  the  famed  forest  of 
Jumieges,  on  visiting  the  ruins  of  the  convent  found 
these  two  desolate  Benedictines  weeping  over  their 
irreparable  losses.  This  particular  son  of  Hollo — 
the  latter  the  great  and  the  first  Norman  chieftain 
to  own  Normandy  (Neustria) — had  a  kind  heart  as 
well  as  a  lively  memory.  Rescued  from  a  terrible 
fate,  during  a  chase  that  might  have  proved  fatal, 
in  a  neighboring  forest,  William  vowed  not  only  to 
rebuild  Jumieges,  but  also  to  enter  holy  orders. 
One  of  these  pious  vows  was  fulfilled.  The  church 
of  St. -Peter  was  rebuilt.  After  William's  assassi- 
nation the  monkish  habit  he  proposed  to  don  was 
found  among  his  effects. 

With  this  rebuilding  of  its  central  church  we 
follow  the  fortunes  of  the  abbaye  step  by  step,  by 
literally  reading  its  story  through  the  architectural 
fragments  that  still  confront  us. 

The  original  church  was  Gallo-Roman,  remains 
having  been  found  of  this  the  earliest  of  all  the 
abbayes.  The  church  built  after  the  first  Danish 
invasion  was  Byzantine-Romanesque. 

Against  the  wall  of  the  church  of  St.-Pierre — the 
Gothic  church  adjoining  the  abbaye — there  are  some 
exceedingly  interesting  panels  still  remaining,  wherein 
were  inlaid,  originally,  Byzantine  mosaics.  There 
are  also  arches  curiously  wrought,  to  the  left  of  this 
elevation — arches  recalling  in  their  grouping  and 
tracery  the  capitals  of  certain  Auvergnois  cloisters. 

It  would  be  well  for  the  visitor  to  begin  his  tour 

249 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  inspection  at  this  point,  as  then  the  gradual  ad- 
vancement in  the  Romanesque,  the  Norman,  the 
Gothic,  and  the  Flamboyant  styles,  in  all  of  which 
Jumieges  is  so  rich,  could  be  traced. 

The  great  abbaye  itself,  begun  in  1040,  was  built 
in  three  distinct  parts :  the  narthex,  the  towers  and 
the  massive  towers  were  first  erected;  the  connect- 
ing nave  was  built  later  on. 

The  superb  central  arches  supporting  the  lantern 
— one  of  which  is  still  intact — these  arches  are  the 
ever-continuing  wonder  of  architects.  The  audacity 
of  the  conception  and  the  triumphant  success  of  the 
perilous  venture  of  carrying  the  Norman  arch  to 
such  a  height  class  this  achievement  among  the 
rarest  architectural  jewels  in  France. 

The  elaborate  Gothic  apsidal  chapels  were  added 
under  English  domination.  The  delicacy  of  the 
carving,  the  refinement  in  the  stone  traceries,  are 
eloquent  of  the  taste  displayed  in  perfecting  every 
detail  in  these  ornamental  additions  to  the  main 
building.  The  singular  nobility  and  unusual  dig- 
nity of  the  older  Norman  abbaye  is  perhaps  made  the 
more  pronounced  seen  thus  in  contrast  with  the 
lighter,  more  purely  decorative  Gothic.  The  "mas- 
sive rudeness"  which  commonly  characterizes  the 
majority  of  Norman  cathedrals  or  the  more  im- 
portant Norman  churches  is  strikingly  absent,  as  a 
distinctive  feature,  in  this  Jumieges  abbaye.  There 
are  such  breadth,  elevation,  and  simplicity,  as  well  as 
such  grandeur,  in  the  fragments  left  us,  we  can- 
not conceive  of  the  church  as  it  was  as  otherwise 

250 


JUMIEGES 

than  the  most  perfect  of  all  Norman  ecclesiastical 
structures. 

A  great  ruin  has  the  one  supreme  advantage  of 
allowing  imagination  to  take  its  flight.  When  a 
Norman  church  has  the  tender  blues  of  an  August 
sky  for  a  roof,  and  living  trees  and  vivid  grasses  for 
traceries  along  arches  and  columns,  where  can  one 
find  Ferguson's  "massive  Norman  rudeness"? 

As  one  now  walks  beneath  the  roofs  of  sky,  be- 
neath a  side-wall  here,  a  fragment  of  a  nave  there, 
with  a  head  staring  out  at  one  beneath  a  capital, 
on  whose  nose,  perhaps,  a  swallow  alights — frag- 
mentary as  is  this  labyrinth  of  antique  structures, 
it  yet  preserves  an  astonishing  air  of  solidity.  It 
seems  impossible  to  associate  with  the  majestic  pile 
the  idea  of  decay  or  of  sadness.  There  is  something 
of  the  same  exhilarating  atmosphere  pervading  these 
great  ruins  such  as  one  experiences  in  standing  on 
the  Athenian  Acropolis. 

The  great  life  lived  here  seems  to  have  communi- 
cated something  of  its  vibratory  power  to  the  very 
air.  Those  dynamic  forces  of  passions  and  beliefs 
that  stir  the  world  no  longer  appear  to  have  hu- 
manized the  very  stones.  One  might  well  believe 
one  heard  voices  still  commanding,  exhorting,  com- 
forting, preaching,  and  praying,  and  others  raised 
in  solemn  chant  of  praise  in  that  superb  male 
chorus  that  rose  up  under  the  towering  arches  for 
twelve  long  centuries. 

There  is  indeed  scarcely  a  stone  left  standing  that 
does  not  bristle  with  suggestions. 

251 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

In  the  ensuing  centuries  Jumieges  contained 
within  its  vast  walls  many  of  the  fields  of  human 
industry  which  in  our  later  centuries  have  been 
specialized. 

It  was  at  once  a  great  school,  renowned  for  its 
advanced  scholarship  and  its  scientific  attainments 
and  teachings;  it  was  also  a  food  committee,  a 
master  of  forestry,  and  an  administrator  of  towns, 
of  villages,  and  of  wide  stretches  of  country. 

These  abbots  and  their  monks  "administered, 
governed,  preached,  consoled,  fortified  the  people, 
created  customers,  taught  children,  fed  the  poor, 
educated  clerics,  sustained  the  liturgy,  spread  abroad 
hope  and  peace."  Their  college  won  a  great  name 
indeed  for  learning;  charities  on  an  immense  scale 
passed  through  the  hands  of  these  Benedictine  dis- 
tributers. 

It  is  only  in  attempting  to  grasp  the  magnitude  of 
such  labors  and  the  lofty  ideals  animating  these 
Jumieges  monks  that  the  importance  and  radiating 
influence  of  their  twelve  centuries  of  continuous 
effort  can  be  divined.  Once  the  grandeur  of  the  life 
lived  under  these  noble  arches  is  seized  and  pictured, 
the  splendors  of  the  ruins  themselves  are  illumined 
by  that  idealizing  vision  which  helps  one  to  rebuild 
them. 

The  scenario  of  the  great  historic  situations  asso- 
ciated with  Jumieges  was,  one  must  concede,  mag- 
nificently set. 

The  greatest  of  all  the  scenes,  since  it  was  one 
that  changed  the  face  of  the  world,  was  played  out 

253 


JUMIEGES 

between  Edward  the  Confessor  and  William,  Duke  of 
Normandy;  and  later  the  same  setting  was  furnished 
for  the  vows  Harold  the  English  king  was  to  mouth 
before  the  stern  Norman. 

That  "halo  of  tenderness"  which  Green,  the  his- 
torian, states  was  to  surround  the  very  name  of 
Edward  the  Confessor  was  possibly  a  halo  borrowed 
from  the  gentle  yet  learned  Jumieges  monks.  The 
English  king,  as  boy  and  man,  had  lived  as  a  student 
and  exile  at  Jumieges.  There  it  was  he  made  his 
promise  to  his  kinsman,  William,  Duke  of  Normandy; 
the  crown  of  England  was  to  pass  after  his  death  to 
the  strong  hands  of  his  Norman  cousin. 

Dim  as  are  the  lights  that  play  upon  that  mo- 
mentous scene,  Norman  historians  have  preserved 
for  us,  through  their  vivid  character-drawing,  the 
outlines  and  features  of  the  two  rulers.  We  can 
still  picture  the  strongly  built,  powerful  frame  of 
William,  his  Danish  heritage  of  strength  and  un- 
tamable vigor  blazing  through  his  blue  eyes  and 
resolute  features.  He  who  from  his  earliest  boyhood 
had  proved  himself  warrior,  a  great  leader  and 
winner  of  men,  a  true  king  and  ruler,  must  have  felt 
the  winy  rapture  flood  his  whole  being  at  hearing 
the  vow  lisped  by  his  English  cousin.  He,  the 
"Bastard"  King  of  England!  On  royal  robes  no 
stains  of  birth  are  seen. 

Opposite  this  controlled,  indomitable,  superb 
figure  stood  "the  gentle  king" — he  who,  on  taking 
up  the  English  scepter  on  his  return  from  exile, 
seemed  "a  mere  shadow  of  the  past."  "There  was 

253 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

something  shadow-like  in  his  thin  form,  his  delicate 
complexion,  his  transparent  womanly  hands."1 

Like  shadows  now  are  the  aureoled  confessor,  the 
mighty  Norman  ruler,  Harold,  who  was  to  swear, 
later  on,  Edward's  oath  once  again — this  time  on 
Jumieges's  sacred  relics,  as  are  all  the  attendant 
host  of  monks,  of  abbots,  of  Norman  knights,  and 
of  English  earls,  who  were  doubtless  present  when 
Edward  and  Harold  gave  their  kingly  word — the 
promise  that  was  to  shape  the  fate  of  unborn  millions 
— like  shadows,  indeed,  those  phantom  forms  melt 
into  the  mists  of  the  past.  How  far  away,  how 
remote  from  our  own  lives,  seem  such  men  and  their 
words — we  who  have  known  a  living  William  II  of 
Germany  and  have  seen  monarchies  and  kingdoms 
crumble  like  a  handful  of  dust! 

Yet  the  shadow  cast  by  that  scene,  under  these 
Jumieges  arches,  still  stretches  from  British  London 
to  Melbourne,  from  Delhi  to  Montreal,  as  its  per- 
sistent influence  has  crossed  with  the  English  armies 
the  lilied  fields  of  France,  making  its  blood-soaked 
soil  to  blossom  forth  in  renewed  energy,  to  help  win 
the  great  Victory — to  remake  the  world. 

The  great  bells  of  the  abbaye  that  had  played  their 
chiming  music  in  that  far-away  eleventh  century 
tolled  with  as  clamorous  a  ring  when  Charles  VII 
came  to  Jumieges.  This  king,  who  was  le  gentil  roi 
to  the  two  women  who  chiefly  loved  him — to  Joan 
of  Arc  who  loved  him  reverently  as  her  king,  and 
the  other  one  who  loved  him  as  women  love  royal 

1  Green,  History  of  the  English  People. 
254 


JUMlfiGES 

lovers,  or,  rather,  as  they  did  in  the  days  when  kings 
were  such  kings  that  to  yield  to  their  passion  was 
considered  jrather  an  honorable  weakness  than  a 
disgraceful  action — this  king  of  France  came  in  the 
year  1449  to  the  abbaye  partly  to  see  to  the  enlarge- 
ment of  certain  apartments  in  the  superb  palace 
reserved  for  royal  visitors. 

Such  an  errand  was  a  serious  matter.  Lover  of 
ease  and  luxury,  dreaming  of  peace  with  wars  thun- 
dering at  half  the  towns  in  France  not  yet  his,  the 
king  had  come  to  Jumieges  to  plan  new  splendors, 
it  is  true,  and  also  to  make  love  to  Agnes  Sorel. 

Agnes  was  close  at  hand.  There  was  to  be  no 
element  lacking  in  the  king's  entertainment. 

One  wonders  if  the  king's  memories  were  all 
sweet  as  he  rode  along  the  Seine  shores;  if  the  river 
in  its  steely,  wintry  shining  held  up  to  him  no 
mirror  reflecting  the  burden,  light  as  had  been 
kingly  gratitude,  that  the  waters  running  to  the  sea 
had  carried,  on  a  certain  spring  May  day  in  the  year 
1431.  Did  the  chasing  waves  tell  him  no  story  of 
how  a  French  king  had  deserted  the  girl — the  saint 
who  had  saved  him — whose  courage  and  pious  be- 
lief in  him  as  God's  anointed  had  saved  France? — 
had  crowned  him,  Charles,  king  at  Rheims,  as  she 
had  promised?  "Gentle  Dauphin  ...  the  Heav- 
enly King  sends  me  to  tell  you  you  shall  be  anointed 
and  crowned  at  Rheims!"  she  had  cried,  as  she  knelt 
at  his  feet.1 

Here  now  was  Charles,  crowned  and  anointed, 

1  Lea,  Hislaire  de  t 'Inquisition,  translated  by  Saloman  Reinach. 

«55 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

riding  to  meet  his  mistress.  How  could  he  be 
expected  to  feel  the  prick  of  conscience  or  to  allow 
dismal  memories  of  a  hateful  past  to  rise  up  to  spoil 
his  present  glow  of  happy  content?  Eighteen  years 
ago  a  peasant  girl  called  Joan  of  Arc  was  burned  at 
the  stake,  and  her  ashes  were  flung  into  the  Seine. 
A  king  could  afford  to  forget.  There  were  many 
who  affirmed  she  was  a  witch.  The  French  bishops, 
the  English  judges,  and  the  inquisitors  believed  her 
to  be  one.  And  it  was  the  English  and  the  Inquisi- 
tion that  had  condemned  her.  The  king  whom 
Joan  had  crowned  could  therefore  shrug  his  shoulders 
and  ride  on,  smiling  as  he  thought  of  the  face  of  all 
faces  for  him,  looking  forth  even  now  from  a  manor 
window.  The  God  that  watches  over  kings  works  in 
wondrous  ways.  Joan,  the  girl  peasant,  was  God's 
humble  messenger  to  rouse  France  and  Frenchmen. 
All  was  now  well  with  the  world — or  would  be,  once 
France  was  entirely  freed  from  English  pretenders. 
The  reasoning  of  kings  is  not  that  of  ordinary  men. 

When  Charles  reached  Jumieges,  not  a  mile  away, 
in  the  charming  Manoir  du  Mesnil,  close  to  the  Seine 
shores,  la  belle  des  belles  was  awaiting  her  royal  lover. 
From  her  manor,  it  is  recorded,  through  its  windows, 
or,  as  she  wandered  out  upon  the  roads  leading  to 
Jumieges  or  along  the  river  shores,  Agnes  would 
look  and  look  "to  see  if  she  could  see  something 
coming."  How  like  a  woman!  It  is  always  the 
woman  who  watches  and  waits. 

At  this  period  of  her  life  this  lovely  woman,  for 
whom  even  the  harshest  historian  has  only  soft 

256 


JUMlfcGES 

words,  was  no  longer  in  the  first  bloom  of  her  radiant 
youth;  she  was  nearing  forty.  At  twenty-two,  such 
was  the  fame  of  her  beauty,  les  plus  grands  seigneurs 
la  courtisaient,  though  she  possessed  neither  fortune 
nor  a  great  name. 

When  the  greatest  of  all  French  grandees  paid  her 
his  court  Agnes  won  even  the  queen's  respect  by  the 
dignity  of  her. answer:  "Simple  demoiselle  though  I 
am,  the  king's  conquest  will  not  be  an  easy  one,  for 
him.  I  venerate  and  honor  him,  but  I  do  not  con- 
sider I  have  anything  to  share,  in  such  honors,  with 
the  queen." 

Agnes  reconsidered  that  decision,  as  all  the  world 
knows.  Such  was  her  charm,  such  her  wise  counsels, 
such  the  mingled  gaiety  and  wisdom  of  her  mind 
and  character,  that  she  kept  a  sensuous-natured  king 
true  to  her  till  she  died. 

Never,  it  appears,  was  Agnes  as  tender,  as  beau- 
tiful, as  during  this  her  last  great  moment  of  happi- 
ness. It  almost  seemed,  we  are  told,  as  if  she 
divined  her  coming  end.  "Her  wit,  her  charming 
grace,  all  those  delicate  ways  she  had  learned  at  the 
court  of  Isabeau  of  Lorraine,  Duchess  of  Anjou," 
were  the  thousand  magics  by  which  she  charmed, 
not  only  the  king,  but  abbot,  canons,  and  deans 
whose  vows  of  continence  did  not  forbid  their  homage 
to  a  king  who  had  broken  his  nor  their  openly  ex- 
pressed delight  and  admiration  for  an  unrepentant 
Magdalene. 

Certain  French  historians  would  have  us  believe 
that  Agnes's  memory  pervades  every  part  of  the 

257 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

great  abbaye.  The  fact  of  the  king's  last  meeting 
with  his  love  in  the  superb  setting  of  Jumieges,  this 
tender  episode  in  the  history  of  the  abbaye,  has 
cast,  it  is  true,  that  spell  of  romance  about  the 
famous  monastery  which  illicit  amours,  framed  in 
sumptuous  surroundings,  are  certain  to  evoke. 
That  this  meeting  of  the  lovers  was  known  and  prac- 
tically countenanced  by  a  whole  convent  of  monks 
adds  a  piquant  note  to  the  event. 

Jumieges  in  this  fifteenth  century  was  at  the  very 
zenith  of  its  splendor.  Having  escaped  the  pillaging 
and  devastating  outrages  only  too  common  during 
the  English  occupation  of  all  this  part  of  Normandy, 
the  abbaye  was,  one  may  say,  actually  gorged  with 
its  riches.  The  king  and  his  suite,  as  Francis  I 
found  in  the  following  century,  as  Marguerite 
d'Anjou,  wife  of  Henry  VI,  and  as  so  many  other 
royal  and  crowned  heads  were  to  find — King  Charles, 
as  he  well  knew,  would  be  royally  lodged;  there  were 
apartments,  galleries,  guard-rooms  ready  and  waiting 
for  princely  guests  and  their  attendant  courtiers  and 
guards. 

On  so  vast  a  scale  was  this  splendor  of  the  great 
abbayes  of  the  period  planned  and  administered  that 
the  monastic  life  of  the  brethren,  their  devotions, 
their  vast  business  relations,  their  charities,  their 
administrative  labors,  could  be  carried  on,  uninter- 
rupted and  in  complete  seclusion,  while  literally 
hundreds  of  guests  were  housed,  in  sumptuous  lux- 
ury, and  fed  at  banquets  such  as  Maecenas  himself 

might  have  ordered. 

iwe 


JUMIEGES 

Norman  pomp,  Norman  pride,  Norman  power 
were  shrined  in  the  now  completed  splendor  of  the 
abbaye. 

From  the  upper  galleries  of  the  ambulatories 
Agnes,  as  she  and  her  ladies  came  to  the  celebration 
of  high  mass,  would  have  leaned  downward  to  watch 
the  magnificent  ceremonial,  she  would  have  seen 
the  abbot  wearing  the  jeweled  miter,  carrying  the 
episcopal  staff,  and  on  his  finger  there  shone  the 
violet  glow  of  the  bishop's  ring  belonging,  according 
to  canonical  rule,  strictly  to  bishops;  but  Gregory 
XII  had  bestowed  these  rights  on  a  former  abbot  of 
Jumieges  in  recognition  of  his  great  services. 

Agnes  would  have  slipped  her  white  fingers  along 
her  rosary,  as  she  knelt,  but  her  eyes  would  have 
caught  the  gleam  of  the  morning  sun  illuminating 
the  frescoed  saints  and  angels  and  its  softened  wintry 
glow  on  painted  walls  and  carved  capitals. 

Through  the  stained-glass  windows,  framed  in  the 
Gothic  apsidal  chapels,  the  prismatic  hues  of  a 
thousand  polychrome  colors  would  make  the  choir 
end  of  the  great  church  a  blaze  of  glory.  The  sono- 
rous Gregorian  chant  would  rise,  would  soar  in  rhyth- 
mic volume  like  undulating  waves  made  musical. 
In  the  processional,  the  stepping  of  hundreds  of  the 
black-habited  Benedictine  monks  would  be  the  rude 
accompaniment  to  the  choir -boys'  fluted  tenors. 
The  statues  of  the  cowled  monks  and  saints,  limbed 
by  sculptors,  rigid  in  their  marble  stillness,  niched 
in  their  shrines,  would  seem  almost  as  animate  as 
the  living  army  passing  before  them  as  were  these 

259 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

men  who  were  vowed  to  celibacy,  vowed  to  unques- 
tioning obedience,  vowed  to  renounce  perpetually 
all  that  Charles  and  Agnes  were  blazoning  before 
their  eyes. 

II 

In  the  admirably  arranged  little  museum,  just 
opposite  the  abbaye,  you  will  be  shown  a  certain 
slab  of  black  marble;  this  was  the  covering  stone  to 
the  sarcophagus  in  which  was  laid  forever  at  rest  that 
heart  that  had  beaten  to  every  note  of  love's  rapt- 
ure. Agnes  Sorel  had  wished  son  cceur  et  ses  en- 
trailles  to  be  entombed  at  Jumieges. 

The  idyl  at  Jumieges  did  not  have  a  prolonged  life. 
The  king  arrived  in  November  in  1449.  Toward  the 
end  of  December  he  remembered  he  had  a  kingdom 
not  as  yet  all  his  own;  he  departed  on  a  warlike 
expedition.  Joan  of  Arc,  having  shown  him  how 
to  impress  troops  by  appearing  in  person  before  a 
besieged  town,  the  king  reappeared  in  January, 
having  forced  Harfleur,  held  by  the  English,  to 
capitulate.  We  can  almost  hear  the  bells  ringing  to 
celebrate  the  triumphant  feat.  Calais,  it  is  true, 
was  still  an  English  town;  Honfleur  was  enduring  a 
siege  of  thirty-nine  days;  Paris  was  French  once 
more;  but  in  this  war  of  mutual  extermination  it 
was  rather  famine,  poverty,  ruin  who  were  kings 
than  luxury-loving,  love-making  Charles;  a  hundred 
thousand  men,  women,  and  children  had  perished  in 
Paris  alone  from  misery  and  want. 

Charles  was  forced  to  confront  one  monarch  at 

260 


JUMIEGES 

Jumieges  more  powerful  than  Henri  V,  or  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  or  Talbot.  King  Death  rode  out  of  his 
mystic  realms  and  marked  Agnes  as  one  to  enter 
into  another  life,  through  other  portals  than  palace 
doors. 

In  her  death  Agnes  was  as  mourned  as  she  had 
been  courted  in  life.  All  Jumieges,  all  the  court 
surrounding  the  deserted  queen,  the  queen  herself 
mourned  "the  one  who  was  beautiful  above  all  other 
beauties."  She  died  in  the  odor  of  sanctity,  on  the 
9th  of  February,  1449.  Elle  cut  moult  belle  con- 
trition el  repentance  de  ses  peches  .  .  .  et  invoquait 
Dieu  et  la  Sainte-Marie  a  son  ayde.  Such  death-bed 
repentance  appears  to  me  to  be  passably  easy,  after 
one  has  lived  for  over  eighteen  years  the  happiest  of 
earthly  lives,  unflecked,  apparently,  by  a  passing 
shadow  of  contrition. 

In  the  same  room  as  the  slab  of  Agnes's  sarcopha- 
gus, in  the  museum,  you  will  be  shown  another 
curious,  and  far  more  primitive,  tomb — the  tomb  of 
"Les  Enervfa."  The  legend — for  the  story  bears 
all  the  marks  of  legendary  development — is  the  sup- 
posed history  of  the  two  sons  of  Clovis  II  and  his 
Queen  Bathilde — the  very  queen  who  founded  the 
abbaye. 

These  two  sons,  having  revolted  against  their 
queen-mother  during  the  king's  absence,  suffered 
horrible  and  quite  incredible  punishment  at  their 
father's  hands.  The  two  rebellious  sons  were  ham- 
strung, and  their  bodies  were  flung  to  the  mercy  of 
the  Seine.  Discovered  and  rescued  by  the  Jumieges 

18  261 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

monks,  they  died  in  the  monastery,  and  were  piously 
buried  in  the  original  church. 


in 

Jumieges  for  a  long  century  was  to  enjoy  its  era 
of  power.  With  the  wars  of  religion,  however,  the 
Calvinists  were  to  precede  the  Terrorists,  in  their 
fury  of  demolition,  sacrilege,  and  pillaging.  The 
monks  fled,  perhaps  through  that  very  subterranean 
passage  which  the  Jumieges  guide  will  even  now 
show  you.  Such  passages  were  built  originally  for 
quick  and  safe  exit  not  only  for  the  brethren  in- 
habitating  monasteries,  but  for  the  surrounding 
population  who  sought  safety  from  Norman  pirates, 
later  from  English  armies,  in  the  ensuing  centuries 
from  Protestant  pillagers,  and  later  still  from  the 
Terrorists. 

Jumieges  from  its  earliest  beginning  had  been  a 
refuge,  in  critical  times,  for  the  neighboring  villagers. 
Kings  did  not  disdain  to  gain  towns  and  cities  thus 
through  its  secret  underground  passages,  to  towns 
and  cities  where  they  might  court  safety. 

These  long,  well-built,  all-but-airless  galleries  re- 
semble the  better-built  trenches  of  our  late  war. 
Through  these  dark,  underground  passageways 
every  cloistered  inhabitant  of  Jumieges  could  flee 
during  the  wars  of  religion  as  far  as  Rouen.  With 
them  the  monks  were  careful,  knowing  the  Cal- 
vinists' hatred  of  sacred  relics  and  their  love  of  gold, 
to  carry  with  them  the  bones  of  saints,  all  the 

262 


JUMIEGES 

magnificent  gold  altar  service,  and  all  of  their  treasure 
it  was  possible  to  transport. 

A  single  elderly  monk  and  a  convert  were  the  only 
occupants  of  the  vast  monastery  to  answer  the 
angry,  cheated  Protestants,  whose  faces  must  have 
reflected  other  passions  than  those  preached  by 
Calvin  and  Luther,  when  they  made  their  raid  on 
the  monastery. 

In  the  later  Renaissance  period  the  great  abbaye 
recovered  its  lost  splendor.  We  read  that  the  beau- 
tiful gardens,  which  you  may  still  see,  were  laid  out 
as  doubtless  we  now  behold  them;  for  the  present 
owner  of  Jumieges  has  continued  her  talented  hus- 
band's works  in  restoring  at  least  the  lovely  gardens 
to  something  of  their  former  beauty. 

The  fine  library  of  ten  thousand  volumes  was  still 
on  the  shelves,  in  1789,  when  Jumieges,  under 
revolutionary  rule,  was  suppressed  as  a  monastery. 
The  monks  were  succeeded  by  a  regiment  of  cavalry. 
The  sacred  vessels,  all  the  heaped-up  treasures  of 
gold  and  silver — that  gold  that  had  comforted  how 
many  an  impoverished  soul,  that  had  ransomed  its 
own  duke,  Richard  I,  King  of  England,  that  had 
enabled  eighty-two  abbots  to  dispense  charity  as 
plentifully  as  the  golden  wheat  yielded  up  its  wealth 
in  the  abbaye  fields — relics,  vessels,  gold,  all  were 
taken  over  and  transferred  to  the  Public  Treasury. 

During  the  Terror  Jumieges  suffered  the  last 
desecration.  It  was  sold  to  a  Rouen  citizen  in  1796. 
The  magnificent  structures  eventually  became  a 
quarry.  After  all  the  lead,  iron,  wood,  marbles,  and 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

stained-glass  windows  were  sold,  the  very  stones  be- 
came the  property  of  all  who  cared  to  possess  them 
and  at  the  lowest  of  prices. 

In  the  early  years  of  the  Restoration,  so  lightly 
were  such  ruins  as  still  remained  of  the  desecrated 
abbaye  esteemed,  English  lovers  of  noble  architect- 
ure were  enabled  to  purchase  and  to  transport  to 
England  a  whole  Gothic  chapel. 

All  the  world  owes  a  debt  to  the  present  pro- 
prietress of  Jumieges;  the  ruins  themselves  for  over 
sixty  years  have  been  kept  in  a  remarkable  state  of 
repair — if  one  can  speak  of  ruins  and  repair  in  the 
same  breath.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Cointet  have 
done  more  than  merely  to  present  to  the  world,  in 
reverent  fidelity  to  beauty  and  grandeur,  what 
remains  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  collections  of 
ecclesiastical  and  monastic  buildings  in  France. 
They  have  repaired  and  preserved  them. 

They  have  also  given  us  a  garden  of  princes.  The 
highly  intelligent  guide,  an  encyclopedia  of  knowl- 
edge— Monsieur  Detienne — will  lead  you  past  the 
ruined  chapels  of  the  church  into  garden  paths 
rimmed  with  roses,  with  dahlias,  with  stately  mar- 
guerites, and  with  fragrant  heliotrope.  Great  lawns 
stretch  on  and  on,  whereon  uprise  ornamental  trees 
superb  in  growth  and  admirably  placed.  The  stair- 
way leading  to  an  upper  terrace  is  one  of  the  gems 
of  the  Louis  XV  style;  the  steps  curve  in  such  lines 
of  grace  as  seem  rather  an  ornament  than  in- 
dented for  practical  purposes.  Les  Charmies,  where 
Benedictine  monks  have  trailed  their  robes  and 

264 


JUMIfeGES 

steps,  breviary  in  hand,  at  the  hours  of  devotion;  or 
where  mighty  plans  have  matured  between  abbot 
and  a  dean  or  canon;  or  where  kings  have  stepped, 
tempering  their  royal  strut  to  the  gentle  pace  of 
their  pious  host — how  each  and  every  leaf  in  this 
green  shelter  seems  to  whisper  the  secrets  breathed 
here,  the  counsels  given,  and  the  prayers  lifted 
heavenward! 

You  will  note  the  aisles  were  planned  to  form  the 
figure  of  the  cross.  When  the  brethren  paced  these 
luminous  paths,  where  the  sun-rays  sift  through  the 
leaves  but  do  not  dazzle,  the  trees  were  cut  down 
almost  to  the  level  of  the  monkish  head;  for  a 
Benedictine  must  ever  find  heaven's  light  descending 
directly  upon  his  bared  head. 

Our  own  war  must  leave  its  seal  of  destruction  on 
the  ruins.  A  certain  chapel  in  the  Gothic  church 
crumbled  to  fragments,  though  having  miraculously 
escaped  profanation  during  the  revolutionary  period. 
The  terrible  explosion  that  took  place  at  Harfleur, 
in  the  "Pyrotechnic Beige,"  shook  the  land  as  far  as 
Jumieges.  The  chapel  is  now  but  a  mass  of  debris, 
with  one  or  two  walls  standing. 

Many  of  the  more  valuable  ornaments  and  treas- 
ures of  the  abbaye,  during  the  Terror,  or  later  when 
Napoleon  came  to  work  order  out  of  chaos,  were 
transferred  to  Rouen. 

At  St.  -  Ouen,  in  that  most  perfect  of  Gothic 
churches,  you  will  be  startled  at  hearing  a  singularly 
deep-toned,  sonorous-tongued  bell  ring  out  for  high 
mass  and  for  the  great  fetes  of  the  church.  Its 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

glorious  voice  never  rang  out  more  joyous  peals 
than  on  the  great  day  of  Peace.  This,  the  largest  of 
all  the  bells  that  swung  in  the  lofty  Jumieges  abbaye 
towers,  is  now  one  of  Rouen's  prized  possessions. 

When  its  rich  notes  float  out  upon  the  Normandy 
air  it  carries  a  message  to  every  French  man,  woman, 
and  child,  and  to  every  one  else  who  may  hear  it: 
"France  may  suffer,  may  be  brought  low,  may  see 
much  of  its  grandeur  lie  in  ruins;  but  France  raises 
high,  again  and  again,  its  tricolor,  as  once  it  did  its 
fleur-de-lis.  France  and  its  people  love  peace,  as 
did  its  King  Charles  VII;  but  for  France  to  remain 
France  its  people  will  fight,  though,  like  unto  this 
remaining  bell  of  all  the  grandeur  of  Jumieges,  there 
be  but  one  left  to  cry,  *  France  shall  not  die!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


DUCLAIR 


TATJCLAIR,  where  we  were  to  pass  the  night, 
•*— '  impresses  one  as  being  in  utmost  haste  to 
convince  you  it  is  up  to  date.  A  former  posting 
station  between  Rouen  and  Havre,  it  has  the  pre- 
tentious importance,  one  accentuated  by  the  war, 
of  connecting  America  and  Paris. 

The  guide-books  aid  and  abet  this  imposing  as- 
sumption. To  read  all  that  Duclair  offers,  from  a 
point  of  view  of  departure,  turns  one  dizzy.  That 
excellent  "guide  Johanne's"  plans  for  leaving  the 
little  town  would  almost  persuade  one  it  is  Duclair, 
and  not  Boston,  that  is  the  hub  of  the  universe. 
The  Havre  boat  stops  at  Duclair  to  convey  you  to 
Rouen;  the  bac  plying  between  the  two  river  shores 
enables  you  to  reach  Evreux,  or  Paris,  or  the  races 
at  Trouville,  Deauville,  or  Caen,  or  even  Cherbourg, 
in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time.  There  are  also 
conveyances  of  every  kind  to  suit  the  most  exacting 
tastes  to  convey  you  to  Jumieges,  or  to  Caudebec, 
or  to  Etretat,  at  your  will. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

There  were  some  undeniable  proofs  that  ces  Mes- 
sieurs Johanne  were  not  overstating  the  excellent 
case  they  made  out  for  Duclair.  The  road  that  is 
as  close  to  the  Seine  as  it  is  safe  for  a  road  to  run 
presented  a  scene  of  continuous  animation  during 
the  dinner-hour.  There  were  motor-cars  passing 
and  repassing.  There  were  lorries,  filled  with 
English  soldiers;  there  were  chars-d-bancs  rattling 
along,  with  peasant  women  whose  cheeks  wore  the 
ruddy  bloom  of  high  health;  the  bac  crossed  and 
recrossed  at  precisely  the  hours  promised  in  the 
local  newspapers  and  guide-books — and  there  was 
the  lady  from  Paris — her  dog,  and  her  maid,  to  prove 
how  closely  in  touch  was  Duclair  with  the  great 
world. 

It  was  destined  we  were  to  become  acquainted 
with  some  of  the  more  intimate  details  of  this  per- 
son's life-history.  The  revealing  cause  was  the 
closeness  of  the  little  tables  alined  on  the  inn's 
balcony.  Here  also  the  builder  of  the  one  good  hotel 
in  town  had  had  the  wisdom  to  seize  the  business 
advantages  of  providing  an  alfresco  view  of  the  Seine. 

We  had  but  just  given  our  order  for  our  meal  when 
a  motor-car  of  spectacular  aspect — white  as  snow, 
lined  with  strawberry-pink  velveteen — came  to  a 
stop  below  the  balcony.  One  of  the  occupants, 
enveloped  in  a  white  coat,  with  white  shoes  and 
turban  to  outrival  her  car's  purity,  descended, 
seized  a  tiny  toy  terrier,  tucked  it  under  her  arm, 
and  disappeared  from  view  into  the  hotel  interior. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  our  opposite  neighbor. 

268 


DUCLAIR 

She  announced  her  calling  and  her  station  in  life  in 
as  pronounced  a  manner  as  her  car  proved  her  to  be 
one  of  the  votaries  of  Venus.  She  gave  her  orders 
to  the  waiter  with  singular  familiarity;  she  talked 
to  her  maid,  who  now  sat  beside  her,  as  she  might  to 
a  confidante. 

Maid  and  mistress  were  anxiously  eyeing  the  ap- 
proaching bac.  One  caught  murmurs  of  agitated 
queryings,  ejaculations,  and  sighs: 

"If  only  he  got  the  telegram!" 

"Suppose  he  is  not  at  home.  He  may  have  gone 
to  the  Deauville  races!"  were  flung  out  with  no 
attempt  at  veiling  the  tremor  of  anxiety. 

In  spite  of  the  perturbed  expression  on  the  face  of 
this  descendant  of  Thai's,  no  form  of  mental  anguish 
could  impair  the  charm  of  her  appearance.  With 
the  scent  of  the  pervasive  perfumed  sachets  there 
was  swept  to  the  sense  the  agreeable  vision  of  a 
creature  perfectly,  exquisitely  gowned.  The  dust 
and  wind  of  a  motor  trip  had  been  considered  in  the 
choice  of  the  light  warmth  of  the  summer  tweed; 
the  close  lines  of  the  Amazon-fitting  skirt  draped 
lines  of  molded  perfection.  The  loose,  transparent 
blouse,  frilling  at  the  corsage  opening,  and  the  con- 
volvuli-garlanded  hat  set  off  a  face  whose  delicate 
olives  blent  in  exquisite  gradations  with  the  luminous 
hazel  eyes  and  the  masses  of  dark  hair,  whose  ruddy 
flashes  had,  for  a  high  light,  the  sweep  of  carmine 
across  the  full  curved  lips. 

In  spite  of  the  youthful  outlines  of  cheek  and 
brow,  there  was  a  science  of  life  in  the  pretty  creat- 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

ure's  smile,  in  the  very  veiling  of  her  swift  glances. 
Her  whole  personality  revealed  a  type  extraordinary 
in  its  completeness.  She  breathed  life,  freedom, 
emancipation  from  conventional  ruling;  yet  there 
was  neither  effrontery  nor  insolence  in  manner,  voice, 
gesture;  there  was  also  a  complete  absence  of  that 
sense  of  self-abasement  so  characteristic  a  trait  of 
the  French  votaries  of  Venus. 

The  snorting  of  the  barge's  engine  brought  both 
women  to  the  balcony  edge. 

The  maid's  quick  eyes  first  caught  sight  of  a  tall 
figure  pressing  its  way  through  the  crowd. 

"  Voila,  Monsieur!"  she  cried,  triumph  in  her  tone. 
Through  a  group  of  peasants  and  workmen  a  gentle- 
man, booted  and  spurred,  elbowed  his  way  to  the 
boat's  landing -planks.  To  the  two  waving  their 
hands  from  the  balcony  he  raised  his  hat. 

He  was  greeted  with  that  prolonged  roll — that  roll 
of  exuberant  delight,  with  its  staccato  notes — to 
those  caressing,  explosive  ejaculations  characteristic 
of  French  meetings. 

The  gentleman  himself  affected  an  English  phlegm. 
He  was  even  ungracious.  He  was  visibly  irritated. 
He  seated  himself  squarely  before  the  lady  from 
Paris.  And  only  then  he  asked  his  question. 

"Bien — what  in  Heaven's  name  is  the  meaning  of 
this?  What  has  happened?  What  brought  you 
here?" 

The  woman  curled  the  coil  of  her  grace  across  the 
table.  She  laid  her  manicured  finger-tips  on  the 
man's  broad,  sunburnt  hand. 

270 


DUCLAIR 

"Mon  petit,  Ksten.  It  is  terrible — and  funny — 
oh,  but  funny!  You  will  laugh  and  cry  all  in  the 
same  moment.  Imagine  to  yourself,  mamma — 
mamma — yes,  she  marries! — elle  se  marie — to- 
morrow, no  later  than  to-morrow,  if  you  please! 
And  to  whom  do  you  think?  To  the  tamer  of  lions ! 
Yes,  to  that  dreadful  creature!  He  has  hypnotized 
her — and  she  writes  she  sells  everything — and  then 
marries,  to  follow  him — all  over  the  world.  Yes, 
only  that." 

"Well?"  monosyllabled  her  vis-a-vis. 

"But — it  cannot  be!  It  must  be  stopped!  I  go 
to-night,  yes,  this  very  night,  to  stop  it  all — the  sale, 
the  marriage,  everything — and  to  put  that  creature 
where  he  belongs,  out  in  the  cold! — with  only  his 
maillot  for  covering.  He  can  see  how  he  likes  taming 
me  instead  of  the  lions — or  mamma!  Folle — that  is 
what  she  is !" 

As  she  had  prophesied,  her  vis-a-vis  was  laughing. 
The  mingled  gaiety  and  anger  with  which  the  out- 
burst had  been  delivered  had  broken  down  his 
reserves.  He  entered,  one  could  see,  more  and  more 
into  the  spirit  of  the  adventure.  We  heard  him,  at 
the  last,  offering  to  help  in  the  ejection  of  the  lion- 
tamer — "only — you  see,  at  the  chateau,  there  is  a 
houseful,"  he  added,  with  a  shrug,  as  though 
infinitely  preferring  the  prospect  of  a  bout  with  a 
tamer  of  wild  beasts  to  the  enforced  entertainment 
of  his  own  set. 

In  the  end  he  was  forced  to  take  the  last  boat 
across  to  the  opposite  shore.  As  the  bac  moved  off, 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  white  automobile,  the  white  coat  and  turban, 
the  toy  terrier  and  the  maid,  were  whirled  away 
toward  Caudebec. 

It  was  a  relief  to  wander  forth  along  the  bright  little 
streets,  to  have  done  with  a  scene,  amusing  if  you  will, 
but  one  that,  like  the  orris  sachets,  left  the  sense  of 
an  overladen,  somewhat  offensive  atmosphere. 


The  sun  was  now  at  the  last  moment  of  its  golden 
splendor.  The  distant,  forested  hills  wore  veils  of 
misty,  amber  tones.  The  river  was  flushed  with 
pale  yellow  tints,  that  melted  into  delicate  violets 
that  turned  its  surface  to  the  color  of  a  spring  pansy. 

Against  the  shores  the  waters  bubbled  and  bab- 
bled. The  spiral  poplars  and  the  young,  slender 
lindens  sent  their  attenuated  shapes  to  tremble  upon 
the  light  bosom  of  the  river — long,  purplish  shadows 
that  rose  and  fell  as  though  there  were  a  beating 
heart  below  the  bosom  of  the  water. 

As  the  violet  shadows  deepened  across  the  river 
breadth,  two  other  shapes  loomed  forth  under  the 
distant  trees.  The  picture  was  now  complete. 
Into  this  delicate  world  of  dying  amber  and  golden 
hues  a  girl  in  a  pale-pink  gown  and  a  white  filmy 
scarf  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  out  across  at  the^ 
shadow-peopled  river.  The  man  beside  her  stood 
for  a  long  moment  still,  motionless,  as  though  he  also, 
felt  he  must  pay  tribute  to  Jie  fading  glories  of  the* 
beautiful  day. 

272 


DUCLAIR 

With  a  sudden  swift  movement  he  turned,  his 
one  good  arm  was  shot  out,  and  the  pink  gown 
and  filmy  scarf  were  clasped  tight  to  the  soldier- 
blues. 

We  left  them.  The  hour  and  the  coming  secrecies 
of  the  enveloping  night  were  made  for  lovers,  for  the 
right  lovers,  for  those  who  evoked  the  sigh  of  a  sort 
of  sweet  envy. 

There  was  one  more  picture  for  us  the  river  was 
to  give  us  before  we  slept. 

Boat-calls,  steam-whistles,  tootings  brought  us  to 
our  open  windows. 

The  tide  was  at  its  full.  Far  as  the  eye  could 
penetrate  there  was  a  long  chain  of  lights.  Tall 
masts,  dark  funnels,  shapes  of  great  ships  loomed  out 
of  the  darkness.  They  trod  the  waters  with  silent 
feet,  only  the  continuous  beating  of  the  waves  against 
the  embankment  proving  the  unending  procession  of 
the  vessels  that  had  left  their  moorings  at  Rouen  to 
float  down  the  river  to  the  open  sea. 

Bright  lights  in  cabins,  red,  green,  and  blue  lights 
at  stern  or  prows,  sent  their  polychrome  reflections 
into  the  night  of  the  dark  waters. 

This  chain  of  lights  was  dim  as  it  wound  around 
the  curve  of  the  Seine  reaches;  it  became  of  starry 
brilliance  as  it  passed  below  our  windows,  its  flashing 
splendor  trembling  upon  the  bosom  of  the  river  as 
might  jewels  on  a  woman's  breast,  and  far  down 
toward  the  next  bend  of  the  shore  the  lights  went  out 
one  by  one  like  stars  that  sank  before  the  dawn. 

And  the  floating  of  this  long  line  of  ships  went  on 

273 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

and  on  until  the  dawn  touched  with  its  rosy  fingers 
the  tall  masts  and  the  painted  funnels. 


The  next  morning's  run  along  the  Seine  shores 
yielded  more  of  those  surprises  in  which  all  our 
journey  had  been  so  rich.  The  road  ran  close  to  the 
river;  it  was  so  close  there  was  only  a  fringe  of  tall 
shrubs  and  grasses  between  us  and  the  brilliant, 
gleaming  waters. 

The  country  side  of  our  road  was  a  continuous 
orchard  when  it  was  not  a  garden.  This  contrast 
between  the  land's  fertility  and  the  wide  river,  so 
close  to  the  farmlands,  was  full  of  charm;  one's 
head  was  kept  perpetually  bobbing  about,  from  one 
side  to  the  other,  fearing  to  lose  a  single  pictorial 
feature. 

As  on  and  on  we  went,  the  road  seemed  in  con- 
nivance with  this  untouched  prosperity  to  hold  up 
to  us  the  portrait  of  the  France  the  German  coveted 
and  could  not  capture.  Every  turn  of  the  wheel 
showed  us  those  features  that  have  made  the  long- 
continued  reign  of  French  wealth.  There  were  fat 
cattle  gluttonously  feeding  in  deep  grasses;  there 
were  busy  peasant  women  raking  in  hay  or  helping 
to  tie  up  the  sheaves  of  wheat;  boys  were  plowing, 
old  men  were  digging  up  potatoes  or  driving  a  donkey 
to  the  nearest  market;  pigs  of  prodigious  size  were 
grunting  and  grubbing;  and  hens  were  cackling. 
The  whole  country  presented  that  scene  of  rustic 


DUCLAIR 

prosperity  that  makes  the  French  peasants'  has  de 
laine  the  deep  purse  that  has  rescued  France  again 
and  again  from  disaster. 

"C'est  cela,  Madame,  qui  a  paye  la  dette  de  la 
France,"  the  famous  Madame  Poulard  of  the  better 
days  of  Mont-Saint-Michel  once  said  to  me.  She 
wore  then  her  long  blue  apron;  and  to  emphasize 
her  remark  she  had  given  her  wide  pocket  a  signifi- 
cant tap.  In  the  years  that  have  passed  since  hard- 
working, successful  French  business  women  could 
affirm  it  was  their  savings  that  had  so  greatly  helped 
to  pay  the  milliards  demanded  by  Bismarck  as 
France's  indemnity  for  an  unsuccessful  war,  times 
have  changed.  The  bas  de  laine,  the  deep  pockets 
in  blue  aprons,  do  not  pour  out  their  treasures  as 
readily  as  forty  years  ago,  when  the  gold  ran  like  a 
Pactolian  stream.  It  is  Germany's  turn  to  pay. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE    LAST    VOYAGE 


embarkation  on  the  Havre-Rouen  boat  at 
Caudebec  in  midstream  was  effected  with  a 
seriousness  with  which  one  does  not  honor  a  trans- 
atlantic crossing. 

A  small  boat,  manned  by  a  lad,  finally  appeared  at 
a  landing  in  front  of  the  hotel.  It  had  required 
some  hours  to  find  the  owner  of  the  boat,  to  learn 
its  proposed  place  of  taking  on  its  passengers,  and 
at  what  hour  to  be  on  hand  so  as  not  to  miss  it. 
Only  an  Oriental  town  and  Oriental  ways  of  con- 
ducting practical  matters  could  match  Caudebec's 
sluggish  indifference  and  apathy  in  furthering  the 
comfort  and  pleasure  of  the  traveling  public. 

The  group  assembled  on  the  stone  landing,  mean- 
while, was  growing  in  numbers.  The  slender  oars- 
man seemed  inadequate  to  rowing  so  many  able- 
bodied  men  and  women  across  even  a  calm  river 
surface.  The  tempting  effects  of  la  piece  blanche 
was  offered  to  an  athletic  -  muscled  sailor,  whose 
jersey  and  nautical  air  suggested  his  familiarity  with 

276 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE 

the  sea.  The  effect  of  the  silver  coin  was  instantane- 
ous. We  were  rowed  by  an  expert  to  the  boat's  side. 

Here  we  were  met  by  a  storm  of  anger.  The 
captain  hurled  down  at  our  two  oarsmen  a  series  of 
reproaches  and  invectives,  and  with  threats  which, 
in  their  turn,  were  punctuated  by  frequent  gusts  of 
profanity.  Why  was  only  one  boat  brought,  when 
he  had  signaled  for  two?  Why  could  orders  never 
be  obeyed?  Here  were  twenty  passengers  who 
meant  to  go  ashore,  some  bicycles,  and  a  baby- 
carriage.  How  could  these  be  carried  in  a  boat  as 
big  as  a  baby's  cradle?  And  to-morrow — did  these 
insenses  not  know  to-morrow  was  a  fete-day  at 
Caudebec,  and  then,  if  only  one  boat  were  brought! 

Meanwhile  I  was  experiencing  a  certain  pride  in 
having  picked  out  my  man.  The  broad-faced,  good- 
natured,  capable  creature  had  stored  away  every  one 
of  the  twenty  passengers,  the  two  bicycles,  and  the 
baby-carriage.  He  was  ready  to  dip  his  oars  and 
steer  for  the  shore  before  the  captain  was  done  with 
his  harangue. 

Our  own  boat  was  also  moving  up-river.  The 
calm  of  the  river  life  captured  us  almost  as  soon  as 
our  seats  were  placed  in  the  very  prow  of  the  boat. 

Once  more  the  magic  of  the  Seine  held  us  to  pay 
forfeit  to  its  charm.  Looking  upon  the  shore  of 
which  only  a  few  hours  ago  we  had  been  a  part,  and 
now  viewing  the  great  hills,  the  landscape,  the  disap- 
pearing town  of  Caudebec  set  among  its  rising 
heights,  was  to  find  the  whole  scene  wondrously 
amplified.  As  the  river  began  to  turn,  as  it  were 

19  277 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

upon  itself,  rounding  the  long  peninsula  of  Juinieges, 
the  grandeur  of  the  mountains  following,  on  the 
right,  in  their  green,  sunlit  summer  fullness  of  ver- 
dure, produced  a  most  impressive  effect  of  breadth, 
height,  and  luxuriance. 

The  forests  of  Le  Trait,  the  beautiful  forest  of 
Brotonne,  and  now  the  forest  of  Jumieges  through 
whose  leafy  embrace  the  great  abbaye  lifted  its  two 
crowns  as  though  insistently  to  dominate  the  scene 
as  centuries  ago  the  monks  had  ruled  it — these  great 
towers  and  the  wooded  hills  were  following  shapes — 
the  forests  indeed  ended  only  with  the  close  islands 
about  Rouen. 

The  pictures  that  unrolled  themselves  succeeded 
one  another  all  too  quickly.  There  were  pastures  on 
one  side  of  the  river,  peopled  with  cattle,  their  red- 
and- white  hides  carrying  spots  of  color  to  accentuate 
the  greens.  There  were  the  curious  formations  of 
the  hills  which  seem  symmetrically  sculptured  to 
give  place  to  valleys;  and  along  these  fertile  valleys 
you  could  watch  the  quiet,  placid  country  life  living 
itself  out  as  centuries  ago  it  lived,  under  terrors  of 
wars  and  invasions  our  epoch  has  but  seen  repeated. 
A  chateau  tower,  farms,  tiny  villas,  spoke  for  the 
sense  of  recaptured  tranquillity.  Windows  were 
open,  gardens  were  in  bloom,  an  indescribable  peace 
permeated  the  atmosphere. 

Duclair  was  passed  again.  It  wore  its  same  bright, 
alert  air,  as  of  a  little  town  ready  to  meet  the  emer- 
gencies and  demands  of  any  century  with  a  smiling 
energy.  Beyond  the  town  were  some  curious  white- 

278 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE 

chalk  quarries,  in  which,  it  is  said,  any  number  of 
people  still  live,  preferring  this  troglodyte  habita- 
tion to  all  others.  Certain  slits  in  the  rocks 
showed  well-cut  windows — curtained — and  painted 
doors. 

The  Seine  took  another  great  sweep  and  the 
forest  of  Mauny  rose  up  to  continue  the  long  lines 
that  stretch  across  the  horizon  like  woven  green 
tapestries. 

There  is  a  famous  Norman  church  for  which  we 
were  eagerly  watching  with  the  hope  looming  large 
of  its  yielding  up  its  fine  outlines  through  the  low, 
thickly  wooded  plain  on  our  left. 

St.-Martin-de-Boscherville,  formerly  St.-Georges- 
de-Boscherville,  is  known  to  architects  as  one  of  the 
few  Norman  churches  which  were  built  all  of  a  piece, 
so  to  speak.  One  must  go  back  as  far  as  the  eleventh 
century  to  find  its  generous  builder.  In  the  stately 
chateau-fort  of  Tankerville,  which  we  passed  just 
after  leaving  Havre,  Raoul  de  Tankerville,  a  cham- 
berlain of  William  the  Conqueror,  probably  caught 
his  duke's  mania  for  church-building. 

There  was  a  passion  that  leaped  forth  from  the  walls 
of  this  ancient  church  more  potent,  and  far  more 
contagious,  than  the  erection  of  Christian  churches. 
The  legend  of  the  chateau  on  the  opposite  of  the 
river  has  lived  longer  than  the  fires  lighted  by  that 
flame  were  permitted  to  incite  two  souls  to  court 
damnation. 

A  short  distance  across  the  Seine  there  rises  up  a 
fine  Renaissance  chateau.  A  chapel  is  to  be 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

seen  still  intact  that  gave  the  opportunity  to  a 
certain  cure  of  St.-Georges-de-Boscherville,  and  to 
the  fair  chatelaine  of  the  period,  to  play  with  the 
fates. 

The  chateau  is  known  to  this  day  as  the  Chateau 
du  Corset  Rouge.  In  the  tale  as  it  has  come  down 
to  us  there  are  those  elements  of  passion,  of  religious 
observances  intermingled  with  the  gaieties  of  high 
life  and  of  revolting  cruelty  we  associate  with  the 
Renaissance  epoch. 

The  cure,  it  appears,  came  over  on  certain  days 
to  say  mass  at  the  chateau  chapel.  There  were 
at  times  fortuitous  days  and  evenings  when  M.  le 
Cure  would  prolong  his  visits;  when  good  dinners 
and  cards  and  light  talk  would  inevitably  lead  to  a 
desire  to  enliven  the  solitude  of  a  charming  and 
temptingly  beautiful  chatelaine.  On  certain  jour- 
neys of  the  master  of  the  house,  the  cure's  visits  were 
prolonged.  On  a  certain  fatal  day  the  visit  was  over- 
prolonged.  The  chatelain  appeared,  when  least 
expected,  as  it  is  ever  recorded  to  be  the  case  in 
such  thrilling  tales  of  conjugal  infidelity.  The  de- 
ceived gentleman  appears  to  have  been  of  a  vio- 
lent temperament,  and  of  an  appetite  for  immediate 
action  which  had  the  most  tragic  results.  He  killed 
his  rival,  and,  possessing  an  imagination  which 
o'erleaps  our  modern  range,  he  adjudged  to  his  un- 
faithful spouse  a  form  of  punishment  that  lifts  him 
to  the  criminal  deviltries  of  the  Borgias.  Not  only 
must  a  certain  corset  be  steeped  in  the  blood  of  his 
victim — but  it  must  be  worn! 

f  280 


CHURCH  OF  THE  ABBAYE  OF  ST. -GEORGE  OF  BOCHERVILLE 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE 

"Imagine  any  husband,  in  these  days,  caring 
enough  to  take  such  a  revenge!" 

"In  these  days  a  man  can  have  as  many  wives  as 
he  pleases — seriatim — be  it  strictly  observed — so 
why  bother  about  one?" 

r  The  voices  behind  me  had  taken  no  pains  to  mur- 
mur then*  skeptical  raillery.  I  divined  the  speakers 
to  be  both  too  young  to  take  other  than  a  jocose 
view  of  the  tragedy.  The  raillery  went  on.  But 
the  starting  into  view  of  rocks  that  seemed  to  have  a 
certain  family  likeness  to  our  Hudson  River  Palisades 
decided  us  to  change  our  seats.  The  rocks  were  of 
all  sorts  of  shapes,  fantastic,  irruptive,  strangely  and 
weirdly  colored. 

In  a  sudden  opening,  beneath  an  overhanging  shelf 
of  rock,  fixed  and  immobile,  like  carved  statues  on  a 
pedestal,  the  figures  of  two  nuns  appeared.  In  their 
black  habits  and  long  veils,  their  heads  bent  over 
then*  breviary,  their  appearance  was  sensational. 
That  is  precisely  what  the  projector  of  this  innocent 
joke  on  the  traveling  public  intended. 

The  owner  of  a  chateau  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rock-faced  mountain  conceived  this  original  idea  of 
ornamenting  the  dramatic  aspect  of  these  curious- 
shaped  hills  by  introducing  a  religious  note.  He 
has  achieved  his  purpose;  for,  at  a  first  glance,  one 
could  never  imagine  those  realistic  figures  to  be 
inanimate — though  why  two  nuns  should  choose  to 
read  the  office  of  the  hour  on  a  narrow  ledge  of 
rock,  in  a  damp  and  dimly  lighted,  cavelike  pro- 
jection, could  scarcely  be  convincingly  explained. 

281 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

II 

A  more  interesting  conversation  than  that  of  the 
two  triflers  with  life  was  going  on  at  my  elbow.  Two 
elderly  men  were  discussing  Marechal  Foch's  strat- 
egy. One  of  the  gentlemen  compared  certain  of  his 
"offensives"  to  the  tactics  Napoleon  made  use  of. 
There  followed  an  animated  talk  in  which  the  great 
modern  general's  close  study  of  the  methods  pursued 
by  the  master  of  strategy  were  cleverly  stated  and 
analyzed. 

"And,  you  know,  we  are  now  approaching  the 
column  that  commemorated  Napoleon's  remains 
being  transferred  to  the  smaller  boat,  to  take  them 
up  to  Courbevoie — " 

This  interjectional  remark  set  me  quivering.  To 
look  upon  this  column  had  been  the  really  animating 
purpose  of  my  insistent  desire  to  investigate  this 
part  of  the  Seine  by  boat. 

Years  ago  I  had  decided  I  must  see  the  eagle  that 
crowned  the  column — find  its  exact  emplacement, 
and  relive,  in  the  very  surroundings  of  river  and 
landscape,  the  historic  passing  of  that  great 
scene. 

I  now  surrendered  myself  to  the  grip  of  the  excite- 
ment possessing  me.  I  had  no  further  desire  to 
watch  river  lights  or  broad  plains  or  to  be  awed  by 
towering  hills.  I  was  set  on  one  purpose — to  watch 
for  the  column.  When  would  it  appear? 

The  boat  made  a  plunge  shoreward,  as  though  to 
facilitate  my  earnest  search.  In  an  incredibly  short 

282 


THE  LAST  VOYAGE 

while  a  village  above  the  low  shore-line  appeared — 
one  I  had  been  told  to  look  for. 

This,  then,  was  Val  de  la  Haye.  Somewhat  re- 
moved from  the  shore,  yet  close  enough  to  find  it 
disappointing,  from  any  point  of  view,  as  an  imposing 
monument,  a  short  column  surmounted  by  an  eagle 
and  rising  from  the  base  of  a  pedestal,  rose  up  shaded 
by  some  trees. 

The  column  seemed  indeed  inadequate,  and  far 
too  modest  a  reminder  of  as  moving,  as  great  an 
event.  Memory  flew  to  supply  what  the  somewhat 
mean-looking  column  failed  to  commemorate  with 
becoming  pomp  or  beauty.  The  spectacle  of  the 
passing  of  Napoleon's  remains  reappeared  as  I  had 
seen  it  represented  hi  illuminating  pages — and  this 
is  what  I  saw  and  remembered: 


CHAPTER  XX 


NAPOLEON  S    REMAINS    CONVEYED    FROM   ST.    HELENA 
UP    THE   SEINE 


WHILE  Louis  Philippe  was  still  king,  was  still 
nominally,  at  least,  ruler  of  France,  his  short 
reign  was  ennobled  by  one  act  of  retributive  justice. 
An  account,  graphic,  picturesque,  and  one  painted 
in  vivid  colors,  of  the  transportation  of  Napoleon's 
body  from  his  all-but-forgotten  grave  in  St.  Helena, 
across  the  seas,  and  up  the  Seine  to  Courbevoie, 
close  to  Paris,  is  left  us  in  the  then  young  Prince  de 
Joinville's  Vieux  Souvenirs. 

This  young  prince,  third  son  of  Louis  Philippe,  had 
entered  the  navy  at  an  early  age.  His  two  brothers, 
the  Princes  de  Chartres  and  d'Aumale,  being  in  the 
army,  had  been  despatched  to  take  command  of 
certain  divisions  under  the  Marechal  Valee,  and  sent 
to  Mousa'ia.  Joinville  saw  them  depart  with  a 
certain  envy,  since,  shortly  after,  during  his  leave  in 
Paris,  the  prince  had  been  taken  ill. 

In  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries  there  appeared  one 
day,  in  this  winter  of  1840,  at  his  bedside,  the  king, 
his  father,  and  Monsieur  Remusat,  the  latter  then 
Minister  of  the  Interior,  "an  unexpected  visit  which 

284 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

filled  me  with  surprise,"  the  prince  confesses.  "My 
amazement  increased  when  my  father  said  to  me, 
'Joinville,  thou  wilt  start  forth  for  Ste.-Helene  and 
bring  back  Napoleon's  coffin.'"1 

One  might  well  have  been  "surprised"  at  receiving 
a  far  less  astounding  order.  The  young  prince  con- 
fides to  us  in  his  Memoirs  that  had  he  not  been  in  bed 
he  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground.  "At  first,"  he 
admits,  "I  was  in  no  sense  flattered  by  the  errand  of 
undertaker  on  which  I  was  being  sent,  in  another 
hemisphere.  However,"  he  added,  quickly,  "I  was 
a  soldier,  and  it  was  not  my  right  to  discuss  an 
order." 

While  the  prince  was  convalescing,  this  project  of 
bringing  back  Napoleon's  remains  to  France  not 
only  was  convulsing  the  press  and  the  country,  but 
in  the  Chambre  des  Deputes  was  the  occasion  of 
unchaining  those  political  passions  which  the  very 
name  of  Napoleon  could  not  fail  to  arouse  in  a 
France  not  yet  freed  from  its  own  "violent  fever" 
of  successive  revolutionary  attacks. 

While  Napoleon  had  been  suffering  "persecution," 
as  he  himself  terms  his  treatment,  during  his  im- 
prisonment, at  the  hands  of  his  English  captors,  and 
neglect  during  the  long  years  he  had  been  lying  in 
the  only  quiet  his  great  spirit  had  ever  known,  in  his 
tomb  at  St.  Helena,  France  had  removed  their 
crowns  from  the  heads  of  two  kings — one  of  whose 
crowns  had  been  sanctified  at  Rheims — had  at- 
tempted to  establish  two  revolutions,  and  was  now 

1  Prince  de  Joinville,  Vieux  Souvenirs,  1818-18 

285 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

anything  but  tranquil  under  this,  their  third  accepted 
monarch. 

Louis  Philippe  possessed  the  neutral  virtues  of 
good  intentions.  But  the  Revolution  had  made  the 
bourgeoisie  the  true  French  king.  The  Chambre  was 
now  the  arena  where  the  struggle  of  these  two 
rivals — this  growing,  new  bourgeois  France  and  the 
dying  feudal  conception  of  monarchy — was  already 
come  to  violent  death-grips. 

Thiers's  project — for  it  was  entirely  his — to  restore 
to  France  the  dead  body  of  its  greatest  conqueror 
was  a  political  trick.  He  needed,  as  prime  ministers 
are  often  in  need  of  such  subterfuges,  a  new  rallying 
force  in  his  favor  for  insuring  a  large  majority  in  the 
coming  election. 

Things  political  in  France  were  in  a  dangerous 
state.  Thiers,  as  head  of  the  government,  had  felt 
the  pulse  of  the  people  and  had  found  it  alarmingly 
feverish.  There  was  neither  enthusiasm  nor  life  in 
the  body  politic  for  politics  as  it  was  then  being 
manipulated. 

The  times  were  critical. 

There  had  been  several  fluctuating  conspiracies; 
the  dangerous  principle  of  "the  rights  of  man"  was 
gaining  headway.  The  bourgeoisie  were  fighting 
their  way  inch  by  inch  to  gain  pre-eminence;  the 
battle  between  the  monarchical  principle  and  the 
parliamentarian  principle  was  reaching  a  climax. 
All  reverence,  all  consideration  for  royalty  were 
declining.  The  bourgeoisie,  having  accepted  Louis 
Philippe  as  king,  had  believed  this  restoration  of 

286 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

monarchy — of  a  constitutional  king  "who  reigns  but 
does  not  govern" — would  hold  the  people  in  check. 
But  the  bourgeoisie,  being  above  all  else  a  class 
governed  by  self-interest,  ignored  the  people  and  the 
poor.  The  rights  of  man,  therefore,  were  being 
listened  to.  Thiers,  wherever  he  looked,  heard 
grumbling  thunder  in  the  political  air.  A  lightning 
stroke  might  clear  the  atmosphere. 

Strong  remedies,  Thiers  felt,  must  immediately  be 
administered.  L'Ennui  de  la  France  must  be  dissi- 
pated. Stimulants,  and  exciting  ones,  must  be 
resorted  to.  Thiers  was  to  be  delivered,  under  the 
presence  of  what  he  felt  to  be  a  political  crisis,  of  one 
of  his  most  original,  as  it  was  assuredly  one  of  his 
most  genial,  projects.  No  fiction-writer,  however 
gifted  as  an  inventive  or  imaginative  author,  but  must 
concede  that,  for  a  prime  minister  to  send  thousands 
of  miles  for  the  dead  body  of  the  man  whom  France 
had  repudiated,  sacrificing  the  "adventurer"  to 
placate  Europe;  whose  imprisonment  for  seven 
years  had  been  accepted  as  just  punishment  for  his 
audacious  attempt  to  rule  Europe  and  his  failure  at 
Waterloo;  whose  body  had  been  allowed  to  remain 
under  the  willows  of  St.  Helena  for  eighteen  years 
unsought,  unsung — for  Thiers  to  have  conceived  of 
the  project  of  stimulating  popular  favor  by  resur- 
recting the  Napoleonic  legend  was  to  prove  himself 
a  master  of  expediency. 

France  took  its  tonic  dose  at  first  with  unsus- 
pecting rapture.  Emotion  rose  to  high  pitch  in  the 
Chambre  when  Remusat,  in  a  thrilling  speech,  an- 

287 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

nounced  to  the  Deputies  that  "in  honor  of  glory  and 
of  genius,  of  greatness  and  of  misfortune,"  the  de- 
cision had  been  reached  that  France  should  ask  of 
England  permission  to  have  Napoleon's  body  brought 
back  to  rest  in  French  soil.  The  very  unexpected- 
ness of  this  great  event  enhanced  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  its  announcement  was  met.  The  Cham- 
bre  was  adjourned  "in  order  to  give  full  sway  to 
sentiments  that  were  overflowing,  and  to  allow  a 
poetry  hitherto  unknown  under  these  arches  to  take 
its  flight." 

The  press  took  up  the  mounting  note  of  exultation, 
of  this  a  nation's  reawakened  enthusiasm  for  its 
national  hero.  All  France,  in  a  word,  was  once  more 
under  the  glamour  of  a  name  that  was  as  a  glorious 
trumpet-call;  that  enabled  every  Frenchman  to 
remember,  in  love  and  gratitude,  the  conqueror  who 
had  conquered  Europe,  placing  France  high  above  all 
nations,  and  whose  downfall  had  sown,  it  was  now 
believed,  all  the  disasters,  disaffections,  and  uncer- 
tainties which  even  this  third  kingship  could  not 
avert  or  control. 

Divided  though  Bonapartists,  legitimists,  consti- 
tutionalists, all  parties  might  be,  the  malady  of 
I'Ennui  de  la  France  had  been  succeeded,  in  any 
case,  by  the  greatest  awakening  of  popular  enthu- 
siasm seen  in  the  kingdom  since  1811 — since  the 
birth  of  Napoleon's  son,  the  King  of  Rome. 

One  voice,  and  only  one,  was  raised  against  the 
universal  choir  of  joyous  acclamation.  But  the 
voice  was  that  of  the  greatest  of  the  French  poets 

288 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

and  orators  of  his  day.  Lamartine,  who  had  been 
nursed  by  his  mother  in  hatred  of  Napoleon,  found 
in  this  historic  event  the  culminating  point  of  his 
oratorical  powers.  His  speech,  delivered  before  the 
fullest  meeting  of  the  Chambre  in  many  a  day, 
stands  among  those  which  proved  to  a  critical  world 
that  a  master  orator  had  arisen.  The  speech  itself 
was  accepted  unanimously  as  a  masterpiece.  Too 
lengthy  to  reproduce  in  its  entirety,  certain  para- 
graphs, at  least,  can  be  quoted,  as  proving  the  pitch 
of  eloquence  attained. 

After  having  expressed  his  lack  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  whole  project  Lamartine  said,  "I  should  not 
have  considered  it  a  misfortune  for  the  memory  of 
Napoleon  had  his  destiny  left  him  a  still  longer  time 
under  the  willows  of  Ste.-Helene." 1 

"Had  this  great  general  been  a  completely  great 
man,  an  irreproachable  citizen;  had  he  been  the 
Washington  of  Europe;  if,  after  having  defended  the 
territory,  he  had  regulated,  moderated,  organized  the 
liberal  institutions  and  the  dawn  of  democracy  in 
France;  ...  if  he  had  made  himself  the  providence 
of  the  people;  if,  after  having  put  in  motion  the 
springs  of  a  temperate  military  government,  he  had 
effaced  himself,  as  did  Solon  and  the  lawmaker  of 
America;  if  he  had  retired,  behind  his  disinterested- 
ness and  his  glory,  to  leave  full  play  to  liberty — who 
knows  if  all  the  homage  of  a  crowd  that  chiefly 
adores  that  which  crushes  it  would  have  been 
rendered  him?  Who  knows  if  he  would  not  sleep 

1  Louis  Barthon,  Lamartine,  Orateur,  1916. 

289 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

more  quietly,  and  perhaps  more  neglected,  in  his 
tomb?" 

Certain  phrases  in  this  great  speech  are  singularly 
significant  of  the  immense  power  wielded  by  time,  in 
adjudging  the  value  of  men  whose  exploits  are  played 
out  before  the  eyes  of  contemporaries.  Who  now 
would  couple  Mirabeau,  Barnave,  and  Bailly  with 
the  great  name  of  Napoleon? 

Yet  Lamartine,  in  alluding  to  the  heroes  whom 
France  had  not  honored,  invokes  the  memory  of 
Mirabeau:  "Where  is  he?  He  rests  in  the  cellar  of 
a  secular  building  that  twice  has  been  used  as  a 
sewer."  He  refers  to  Barnave  and  to  Bailly,  "who 
sleep  unknown,  with  the  remains  of  other  revolu- 
tionary heroes."  He  gives  to  Lafayette  the  more 
glorious  praise,  "lying  under  the  humble  cross  of  a 
family  tomb"! 

"And  the  man  of  the  eighteenth  Brumaire,  the 
man  to  whom  France  owes  everything  except  liberty, 
a  triumphant  Revolution  is  to  go  beyond  the  seas 
to  give  him  an  imperial  tomb!  This  triumphant 
Revolution — I  ask  you — is  there  on  French  soil  a 
monument  large  enough,  sacred  enough,  national 
enough  to  contain  it?  .  .  .Be  careful — reflect  on  the 
encouragements  given  to  genius,  at  all  costs.  I 
doubt  their  effect  on  our  future.  I  do  not  care  for 
those  men  who  have  as  official  doctrine  liberty, 
legality,  progress,  and  who  take  as  a  symbol  a 
sword  and  despotism.  .  .  ." 

The  sensations  and  reflections  evoked  by  these 
daring  attacks  on  Napoleon's  methods  of  govern- 

290 


'LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

ment  and  his  conquests  served  greatly  to  cool  the 
mounting  wave  of  unconsidered  enthusiasm  that  had 
swayed  the  Chambre.  It  is  recorded  that  "the 
sensation  created  was  profound  and  universal." 

General  approbation  acclaimed  Lamartine's  pre- 
sentment of  the  pregnant  query: 

"Where  shall  the  great  tomb  be  placed?  In  the 
Invalides?  Under  the  Column  of  the  Place  de 
Vendome?  In  the  Madeleine?  At  the  Pantheon? 
At  St.-Denis?  There  he  would  shine  solely  by 
virtue  of  his  isolation.  There  are  contacts  that 
history  and  even  stones  should  avoid.  At  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe?  It  is  too  pagan.  Death  is 
sacred,  and  its  resting-place  must  be  in  sanctified 
ground." 

At  this  point  the  great  orator  appears  to  have 
been  gifted  with  prophetic  vision;  for  he  exclaims: 

"If  the  future,  as  we  may  hope,  reserves  for  us 
other  triumphs,  what  conqueror,  what  general  would 
dare  to  pass  beneath  the  Arc?" 

"Such  a  decision  would  be  to  interdict  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe;  it  would  be  to  close  the  door  of 
national  glory  which  must  remain  open  for  our 
future  destinies." 

Had  Lamartine,  indeed,  foreseen,  as  in  a  vision,  the 
"coming  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord"?  Had  the  poet 
who  is  also  seer  dimly  divined  the  return  of  the 
millions  of  conquering  heroes,  of  all  the  nations  who 
fought  victoriously  for  "liberty,  legality,  and  prog- 
ress"? Had  his  fine  ear  caught  the  rhythmic  ca- 
dence of  those  war-weary  feet,  stepping  to  the 

291 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

intoxicating  music  of  Victory,  making  the  arches  of 
the  great  Arc  de  Triomphe  ring  with  the  glorious 
paean  of  Democracy  triumphant? 


In  his  peroration,  Lamartine  proved  his  powers  of 
discernment  and  his  art  in  manipulating  the  diffi- 
culties of  conciliation.  While  he  "proclaims  the 
rights  of  apotheosis  and  of  admiration  in  order  to 
persuade  the  people  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  public 
reason,"  he  contends  that  while  his  vote  would  be 
cast  for  placing  the  Emperor's  remains  in  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  "where  Napoleon  would  be  alone,  and 
where  his  statue  and  his  genius  would  again  pass  in 
review  our  soldiers,"  Lamartine's  preference  for  this 
particular  emplacement  is  less  zealous  than  is  his 
earnest  desire  to  have  the  right  inscription  engraved 
on  the  statue  or  tomb  destined  to  perpetuate  his 
memory. 

"Remember  to  inscribe  on  that  monument,  where 
he  must  be  at  once  known  as  soldier,  consul,  legis- 
lator, emperor — remember  to  write  thereon  the 
only  inscription  that  proclaims  at  once  your  enthu- 
siasm and  your  prudence,  the  only  inscription  which 
can  honor  this  unique  man  and  satisfy  the  difficult 
times  in  which  we  live.  Let  it  be 

To  NAPOLEON,  only. 

"These  three  words,  attesting  that  this  military 
genius  had  no  equal,  will  prove  at  the  same  time  to 

292 


LAST  JOU&NEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

France,  to  Europe,  to  the  world,  that  if  this  generous 
nation  knows  how  to  honor  its  great  men,  she  also 
judges  them,  she  can  distinguish  their  mistakes,  she 
can  even  separate  them  from  their  race  and  from 
those  who  menaced  liberty  in  their  name,  and  in 
raising  this  monument,  in  thus  replacing  this  great 
memory,  she  has  no  thought  of  kindling  from  these 
ashes  either  war,  or  tyranny,  or  legitimists,  or 
pretenders,  or  imitators." 

The  effect  produced  on  his  audience  of  such  elo- 
quence was  electric.  For  once,  at  least,  a  great 
oratorical  effort  bore  immediate  results.  The  Cham- 
bre  revoked  the  credit  of  two  millions  of  francs  it 
had  voted,  and  the  sum  originally  proposed,  a  million 
for  the  expenses  involved  in  the  removal  of  the 
remains,  was  universally  adjudged. 


ii 

While  Paris  was  following,  with  passionate  interest, 
every  varying  phase  of  these  debates  in  the  Chambre, 
the  Prince  de  Joinville  was  rapidly  convalescing. 

On  being  pronounced  fit  to  take  up  his  command, 
de  Joinville  started  for  Toulon.  His  duty,  at  least, 
was  clear  before  him;  un vexed  by  either  political 
or  sentimental  obscurities,  the  young  prince,  as  a 
"soldier,"  could  follow  in  the  path  of  duty  marked 
out  by  his  superiors  with  but  one  paramount  longing 
— to  get  through  with  his  task  and  to  see  it  well  done. 

De  Joinville's  own  opinion  of  Napoleon  is  clearly, 
unmistakably  rendered. 

20  293 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"Above  Napoleon,  an  enemy  of  my  race,  the 
assassin  of  the  Due  d'Enghien,  who  in  his  fall  had 
precipitated  a  France  ruined,  dismembered,  into  the 
jaws  of  that  redoubtable  game  of  chance  in  which 
nai've  crowds  are  so  often  victims  of  the  political 
croupier  'universal  suffrage'  (above  this  Napoleon) 
there  was  the  incomparable  warrior,  whose  genius 
had  covered,  even  in  defeat,  our  armies  with  an 
immortal  glory.  In  going  forth  to  take  his  ashes 
away  from  a  foreign  soil,  it  was  as  though  we  raised 
the  conquered  flag  of  France,  at  least  so  we  hoped, 
and  this  point  of  view  reconciled  me  with  my 


mission." l 


It  was  with  such  really  noble  and  elevated  senti- 
ments that  the  prince  set  forth.  Carrying  with 
him  all  his  ministerial  and  royal  orders,  he  retook 
command  of  his  frigate,  La  Belle  Poule. 

His  Royal  Highness,  Francis  Ferdinand  Philipe 
Louis  Marie  d'Orleans,  Prince  de  Joinville,  was  then 
in  what  is  poetically  termed  the  very  flower  of  his 
youth.  Thackeray,  in  his  somewhat  satirical  ac- 
count of  "The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,"  gives 
us,  in  relenting  mood,  a  flattering  portrait  of  the 
prince  andl  of  the  crew  of  La  Belle  Poule: 

"Monseigneur,  my  dear,  is  really  one  of  the  finest 
young  fellows  it  is  possible  to  see.  A  tall,  broad- 
chested,  slim-waisted,  brown-faced,  dark-eyed  young 
prince,  with  a  great  beard  (and  other  martial  quali- 
ties, no  doubt)  beyond  his  years.  As  he  strode  into 
the  Chapel  of  the  Invalides  he  made  no  small  im- 

1  Prince  de  Joinville,  Vieux  Souvenirs. 

294 


pression,  I  can  tell  you,  upon  the  ladies  assembled 
to  witness  the  ceremony.  .  .  . 

"Nor  are  the  crew  of  the  Belle  Poule  less  agreeable 
to  look  at  than  their  commander.  A  more  clean, 
smart,  active,  well-limbed  set  of  lads  never  'did 
dance'  upon  the  deck  of  the  famed  Belle  Poule.  ..." 

The  youthful  commander  speaks  himself  with 
enthusiasm  of  the  joy  he  experienced  in  being  once 
more  among  his  "brave  gens,"  his  sailors  and  crew 
seeming  to  him  like  a  second  family. 

Some  of  Napoleon's  most  devoted  friends  and 
followers,  those  who  composed  what  was  called  the 
mission  to  St.  Helena — General  Bertrand,  M.  de 
Las  Cases,  and  General  Gourgaud  as  well  as  others — 
were  among  the  passengers  on  La  Belle  Poule. 

Of  the  questionable  taste  of  General  Gourgaud,  in 
thus  associating  himself  with  these  other  tried 
friends  of  the  "great  warrior,"  what  must  one  think 
after  reading  M.  Frederic  Masson's  illuminating 
pages?1 

The  facts  of  Gourgaud 's  treacheries  not  being 
known  to  the  world  of  that  day  as  fully  as  they  are 
to  ours,  de  Joinville  enlarges  on  the  pleasure  and 
profit  derived  from  the  conversation  of  these  inti- 
mates of  Napoleon.  The  long  journey  was  agreeably 
shortened  by  these  contributions  made  to  the  already 
daily  growing  Napoleonic  legend. 

But  it  was  no  imaginative,  historical  record  to 
which  those  listened  who  were  privileged  to  hear  the 
men  who  had  been  side  by  side  with  the  Emperor 

Masson,  NapoUon  d,  Sainte-Httkne,  1815-25. 
295 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

in  many  of  his  greatest  achievements,  who  had 
followed  him  in  battle,  who  had  seen  him  at  the 
zenith  of  his  power,  and  had  followed  him  into 
exile. 

An  idea  of  the  geographical  distance  to  which  the 
allies  and  English  justice  had  exiled  Napoleon  can 
best  be  judged  by  following  the  prince's  narrative 
of  his  voyage.  The  Belle  Poule  touched  first  at 
Cadiz;  then  at  the  port  of  Teneriffe  for  water  and 
supplies;  finally,  going  across  the  Atlantic,  Bahia, 
Brazil,  was  chosen  as  a  route  preferable  to  rounding 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  From  Bahia  there  was  a 
long,  uneventful  journey  of  many  weeks  across  the 
Australian  Atlantic,  escorted  by  "numerous  alba- 
trosses," to  confront  at  last  the  grim  uprising  rocks 
of  St.  Helena. 

in 

The  prince  describes  the  island  as  a  "black 
island"  of  volcanic  irruptive  outlines,  like  the 
"Martinique,  but  without  its  superb  vegetation." 
To  him  it  seemed  a  bit  of  Scotland  planted  in  the 
midst  of  the  ocean,  always  fretted  by  the  alize,1  a 
wind  sweeping  the  whole  island,  with  a  fatiguing 
continuity.  Above  the  rocky,  mountainous  heights 
there  hung  a  perpetual  "bonnet"  of  thick  clouds. 

The  town  of  Jamestown,  the  capital,  the  prince 
found  to  be  a  miserable  village  crawling  along  a 
narrow  valley  sunk  between  "sad  rocks";  above,  on 
the  stony  heights,  gloomed  the  fortress  only  to  be 

1The  winds  that  blow  from  east  to  west  in  the  tropics. 

296 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

reached  by  a  flight  of  six  hundred  stairs.  A  sinister 
gloom  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  island,  the 
governor's  residence,  Plantation  House,  the  "valley 
of  the  tomb,"  and  the  grave  itself,  with  its  legendary 
willows,  as  well  as  Long  wood,  Napoleon's  "prison." 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  island,  indeed,  was  one  well 
calculated  to  "kill  by  slow  fire"  the  great,  active- 
souled  warrior  condemned  to  die  by  inches  in  this 
melancholy,  windy  purgatory. 

The  prince  gives  scant  space  to  his  interviews  with 
the  British  military  authorities.  One  detail  of  these 
preliminaries  is,  however,  of  primal  importance. 
Young  as  de  Joinville  was,  he  gave  rare  proof  of 
possessing  both  sagacity  and  foresight;  he  had  no 
mind,  he  affirms,  either  to  carry  back  to  France 
"imaginary  remains"  nor  a  mass  of  infection.  The 
coffin,  therefore,  it  was  requested,  should  be  opened. 

This  disinterment  was  a  matter  of  no  small 
difficulty. 

To  Major-General  Emmett,  R.E.,  who  filled  the 
post  of  commanding  royal  engineer  at  St.  Helena 
during  the  last  years  of  Napoleon's  life,  to  this 
officer  had  been  confided  the  task  of  preparing 
Napoleon's  tomb  for  the  burial  of  his  remains. 

The  general,  at  the  time  of  his  appointment  to  his 
post  at  St.  Helena,  was  gazetted  with  the  local  rank 
of  major.  His  account  of  his  labors  in  constructing 
the  tomb  were  first  given  to  the  world  in  1912.1 

"On  examining  the  ground  for  the  grave,"  he 
writes,  "I  decided  on  making  a  vault  of  respectable 

1  The  Century  Magazine,  1912. 

207 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

depth.  Substantial  walls  were  made  at  the  sides 
and  ends,  and  a  sarcophagus  for  the  coffin,  supported 
on  stone  pillars,  to  keep  it  from  the  damp.  The 
sarcophagus  was  made  of  the  large  flagstones  sent 
from  England  for  the  kitchen  of  the  new  house 
being  erected  for  him,  and  of  others  from  the  gun 
platforms  of  the  batteries." 

:  Into  this  carefully  prepared  sarcophagus  the  coffin 
itself  was  "let  down  by  tackles,"  a  large  and  thick 
flagstone  forming  the  covering.  "This  was  again 
covered  over  by  courses  of  masonry  set  in  cement 
and  cramped  with  iron,  in  the  presence  of  Napoleon's 
staff,  such  precautions  having  been  desired  by  them 
to  guard  against  clandestine  removal." 

On  the  request  by  the  prince  for  an  examination 
of  the  remains,  it  was  arranged  that  the  disinterment 
should  take  place  on  the  15th  of  October,  1840. 

This  date  marked  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of 
Napoleon's  arrival  at  St.  Helena. 

In  the  presence  of  the  representatives  of  France 
and  England,  the  work  of  exhumation  was  begun; 
the  first  serious  difficulty  was  the  cutting  away  of 
the  bed  of  masonry,  ten  and  a  half  feet  thick,  with 
its  iron  clasps;  under  this  stone  covering  was  found 
a  "strong  stone  slab  .  .  .  forming  the  upper  surface 
of  the  inner  sarcophagus  of  wrought  stone  covering 
the  coffin."  The  sarcophagus  was  ready  for  opening. 
The  dust  was  then  purified  by  chlorin  and  the  slab 
was  raised. 

The  coffin  was  discovered  resting  on  wrought- 
stone  pillars.  The  heavy  coffin  was  raised  by  hooks 

298 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

and  slings  and  taken  to  a  tent  prepared  for  its 
reception. 

A  beautiful  coffin  or  sarcophagus  of  polished 
ebony,  protected  by  an  oak  case,  had  been  sent 
from  France. 

On  the  lid,  inlaid  in  gold  letters,  the  word  "Na- 
poleon" had  been  set. 

After  the  outer  coffin  had  been  removed,  under 
the  tent,  a  second  lead  one  was  found,  and  within 
that  one  still  another  of  wood. 

The  body  itself  lay  within  this  wooden  coffin; 
about  the  remains  was  wrapped  a  lining  of  sheet 
tin,  within  which  a  coverlet  of  white  satin  enveloped 
all  that  death  and  burial  had  left  of  Napoleon. 

The  body,  found  to  be  in  an  extraordinary  state  of 
preservation,  was  exposed  to  the  air  for  but  two 
minutes. 

Restored  to  its  resting-place,  the  coffins  were 
quickly  and  skilfully  closed,  and  finally  secured  in  the 
leaden  one  brought  from  France.  The  key  of  this 
sarcophagus  was  given  to  the  French  commissioner. 

The  scene  at  the  grave  produced  a  most  moving 
impression  on  the  soldiers,  the  commissioners,  the 
English  representatives,  and  the  French  committee. 
The  exhumation  took  place  at  night.  Silence 
reigned.  The  great  stars  of  this  southern  hemi- 
sphere looked  down  on  the  weird  spectacle  of  soldiers 
and  generals  in  uniform,  of  motionless  guards  and 
sailors,  of  grave-faced,  pale  Frenchmen  staring  down 
at  an  oblong  bit  of  earth  into  which  strangely  garbed 
men  were  prying. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  only  sounds  were  the  dull  thud  of  the  loosened 
earth  thrown  up  on  the  sides  of  the  grave,  the 
jangling  of  tools  and  chains,  and  the  rhythmic 
clangor  of  the  heavy  hammering.  The  awed  silence 
was  broken  also,  occasionally,  by  a  command  given 
by  the  English  engineer. 

The  flickering  torches  lighted  up  the  scene  with 
their  yellow  flame — a  flame  that  was  to  spread  on 
and  on,  to  brighten  and  glow,  until,  as  the  years 
rolled  on,  the  true  character  of  the  man  whose 
mortal  remains  on  this  eventful  night  were  brought 
to  receive  their  tardy  due  would  shine  before  men 
as  one  unique  in  kinship,  in  generosity,  and  in  many 
of  the  attributes  of  true  grandeur.1 


IV 

On  delivering  the  key  of  the  ebony  sarcophagus  to 
the  Comte  de  Chabot,  the  king's  commissioner, 
Captain  Alexander  declared  to  him,  in  the  name  of 
the  governor,  that  this  coffin,  containing  the  mortal 
remains  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  was  considered 
as  at  the  disposal  of  the  French  government  from 
that  day,  and  from  the  moment  at  which  it  should 
arrive  at  the  place  of  embarkation,  toward  which  it 
was  about  to  be  sent  under  the  orders  of  General 
Middlemore.  The  king's  commissioner  replied  that 
he  was  charged  by  his  government,  and  in  its  name, 
to  accept  the  coffin  from  the  hands  of  the  British  au- 

1  Lord  Rosebery,  The  Last  Phase.  Arthur  Levy,  Napoteon  Intime, 
(Euvres  de  Frederic  Masson  sur  Napoleon. 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

thorities,  and  that  he  and  the  other  persons  com- 
posing the  French  Mission  were  ready  to  follow  it 
to  Jamestown,  where  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  superior 
commandant  of  the  expedition,  would  be  ready  to 
receive  it  and  conduct  it  on  board  his  frigate. 

The  inspection  of  the  coffin  had  been  conducted 
with  becoming  ceremonies.  There  were  several 
English  officers,  the  French  generals  who  had  accom- 
panied the  prince,  and  the  Prince  de  Joinville  as- 
sembled about  the  four  coffins  in  which  all  that  was 
mortal  of  Napoleon  had  been  rendered  to  the  dust 
to  which  we  must  all  return.  It  seemed,  however, 
as  though  the  earth  itself  had  cognizance  of  the  glory 
confided  to  it.  For  on  opening  the  four  coffins  the 
body  had  been  found  to  be  in  a  wonderful  state  of 
preservation. 

"The  body  seemed  covered  with  a  slight  moss: 
one  might  have  said  we  saw  it  through  a  diapha- 
nous cloud.  It  was  in  very  truth  his  head;  a  pillow 
showed  it  uplifted;  his  large  brow,  his  eyes,  whose 
pupils  could  be  divined  beneath  the  lids  that  were 
still  framed  by  some  eyelashes;  his  cheeks  were 
swollen,  only  the  nose  had  suffered;  his  half -open 
lips  disclosed  three  teeth  startlingly  white;  on  the 
chin  the  outline  of  the  beard  could  be  distinctly 
traced;  his  two  hands  appeared  to  belong  to  some 
one  still  breathing,  so  vivid  was  their  flesh  color- 
ing."1 

The  man  who  most  hated  Napoleon — Chateau- 
briand— has  given  us  perhaps  the  most  vivid  por- 

1  L'Abb6  Coqnereau,  quoted  by  Chftteaubriand. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

traitures  of  Napoleon's  two  faces,  the  living  and  the 
dead,  at  St.  Helena. 

In  describing  the  impression  produced  on  certain 
travelers  who,  during  the  Emperor's  captivity,  had 
seen  and  talked  with  him,  the  famous  French  writer 
(Chateaubriand)  thus  describes  him:  "His  head 
resembled  a  marble  bust  whose  whiteness  had  been 
slightly  yellowed  by  time.  There  were  neither  lines 
in  his  forehead  nor  hollows  in  his  cheeks;  his  soul 
seemed  serene.  This  apparent  calm  convinced  one 
that  the  flame  of  his  genius  had  died  out."  But 
when  he  smiled  the  whole  face  was  illuminated;  "the 
more  serious  the  face  the  more  beautiful  is  the 
smile." 

The  description  given  of  Napoleon's  last  moments 
is  among  the  most  eloquent  of  this  author's  pages: 

"Toward  the  end  of  February,  1821,  he  felt  him- 
self obliged  to  take  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never 
arose.  'Am  I  fallen  low  enough?'  he  murmured. 
'I,  who  moved  the  world,  cannot  lift  my  eyelid.' 

"The  3d  of  May  Napoleon  had  himself  ad- 
ministered extreme  unction  and  received  the  sacra- 
ment. The  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  by  the 
death  cough  mingled  with  the  rhythm  of  the  clock's 
pendulum;  the  shadow,  before  coming  to  rest  on  the 
sun-dial,  made  a  few  turns;  the  planet  that  moved 
upon  its  face  was  slow  to  extinguish  itself.  On  the 
4th  Cromwell's  (Napoleon's)  agony  rose  to  tem- 
pestuous heights;  almost  all  the  trees  of  Longwood 
were  uprooted.  At  last,  on  the  5th,  at  six  minutes 
to  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  Bonaparte  rendered  to 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

God  the  most  powerful  breath  of  life  that  has  ever 
animated  human  clay." 


The  last  words  Napoleon  was  heard  to  utter 
distinctly  were: 

"  Tete  £Arm6e." 

As  a  general,  in  his  favorite  green  coat,  white 
vest,  and  knee-breeches  of  white  cashmere,  white 
silk  stockings,  and  his  Grand  Cordon  de  la  Legion,  his 
body  was  laid  out.  The  change  of  his  face,  after 
death,  was  remarkable.  He  had  grown  stout  in 
the  face  during  the  last  months  of  his  life.  The 
transfiguring  process  of  death  having  begun  its 
marvelous  embellishment,  Marchand,  his  adoring 
valet,  said,  "In  this  state  the  Emperor  had  his 
First  Consul's  face:  his  mouth,  slightly  contracted, 
gave  to  his  countenance  an  expression  of  satisfaction, 
and  he  did  not  look  over  thirty." 

His  death-mask,  taken  by  Doctor  Burton  "at  the 
peril  of  his  life,"1  shows  much  of  the  rare  delicacy 
and  finish  of  the  exquisite  features,  and  also  this 
extraordinary  recapture  of  his  earlier  manhood's 
youth.  This  death-mask,  taken  after  this  first 
fleeting  appearance  of  the  former  beauty  of  his  face 
and  of  its  expression,  Marchand  says  of  it,  "It  is  the 
face  of  the  moment,  but  not  that  one  of  six  hours 
after  death,  which  was  that  of  the  consul's." 

In  the  chateau  of  La  Malmaison,  in  a  certain 
alcove  you  may  look  upon  the  very  bed  on  which  the 

JFr6d6ric  Masson,  NapoMon  a  Sainic-Hettne,  1815-25. 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Emperor  was  laid  out.  Above  the  empty  bed, 
pathetic  in  its  simplicity,  in  its  Spartan  denudation, 
one  would  say,  of  all  comfort — above  there  hangs  a 
picture.1  The  canvas  represents  Napoleon  lying  in 
his  simple  state,  in  his  green  coat,  with  his  general's 
hat,  his  white  silk  hose,  his  white  vest,  and  his  knee- 
breeches.  Across  the  coat  rests  the  Grand  Cordon 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


VI 

"I  desire  that  my  ashes  should  repose  in  France," 
the  Emperor  had  said  to  Arnott,  the  one  English 
doctor  whom  he  tolerated,  because  he  "loved  brave 
men  of  any  country"  and  because  he  could  talk  to 
him  of  Egypt.  Napoleon,  who  faced  death  in  his 
narrow  bed,  in  his  airless  Longwood  prison,  with  that 
fortitude  and  indifference  he  had  shown  in  his  battles, 
had  forestalled  what  he  felt  would  be  the  last  su- 
preme English  cruelty,  "the  captivity  inflicted  on 
his  corpse." 2 

To  his  dear  General  Bertrand  he  had  said,  "Ber- 
trand,  if,  after  my  death,  my  body  remains  in  the 
hands  of  my  captors,  you  will  see  that  it  is  interred 
here."  The  spot  designated  was  in  a  valley  where 
from  a  plain  one  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  sea. 
Beneath  three  willows  there  ran  a  little  brook,  whose 

1  This  bed  of  Napoleon,  transferred  from  Longwood,  and  the  picture* 
are  the  gift  to  the  Malmaison  Museum  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Tuck, 
owners  of  the  Ch&teau  de  Vert  Mont,  opposite  the  chateau  and  park  of 
La  Malmaison. 

2  Frederic  Masson,  Napoleon  a  Sainte-HGlene,  1815-25,  p.  488. 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

cool,  sweet  water  Napoleon  had  found  to  his  taste. 
Thereafter  Chinamen  were  sent  daily  for  this  water 
for  the  Emperor's  use. 

In  another  interview  his  expressed  will  had  been 
to  have  his  remains  taken  for  burial  to  the  "banks  of 
the  Seine";  or  to  the  "island  near  Lyons"  at  the 
confluence  of  the  Rh6ne  and  the  Saone;  or  "to  the 
cathedral  at  Ajaccio,  Corsica."  As  the  English 
governor,  even  after  the  death  of  Napoleon,  imposed 
his  will  on  that  of  his  prisoner  already  entered  into 
earthly  immortality,  it  was  neither  under  the  Gothic 
nave  of  the  Corsican  cathedral  nor  on  the  banks  of 
the  Seine  nor  on  the  island  near  Lyons  that  the 
Emperor's  body  was  to  rest.  English  courtesy 
conceded  burial  only  in  the  valley  of  the  Geranium, 
near  the  Fountain  of  Tochet.1 

The  very  name  to  be  engraved  on  the  tomb  became 
a  matter  of  bitter  dispute.  The  Emperor's  followers 
insisted  that  the  name  to  be  inscribed  should  be  the 
one  he  had  rendered  immortal — Napoleon.  Hudson 
Lowe,  the  Emperor's  most  determined,  inflexible 
persecutor,  asserted  it  must  be  Bonaparte.  Name- 
less, therefore,  since  no  agreement  was  reached, 
with  neither  mark  nor  date,  the  slab  of  marble  had 
fronted  the  sky.  The  mortal  body  of  the  greatest 
mind  and  soul  in  Europe  lay  at  rest,  beneath  the 
shade  of  three  willows,  with  a  trickling  brook  and 
the  soughing  of  a  tropical  breeze  to  sing  perpetual 
threnodies. 

1  Major  Emmett  calls  the  site  of  Napoleon's  grave  "Slane's  Valley, 
near  Huts'  gate," 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

vn 

The  inspection  of  the  remains  having  been  pro- 
nounced satisfactory,  the  Prince  de  Joinville  de- 
manded permission  to  have  the  coffin  transferred  at 
once  to  his  ship. 

At  ten  o'clock,  on  the  very  morning  of  the  termina- 
tion of  the  labors  of  replacing  the  remains  in  the 
coffin  destined  to  proceed  to  France,  the  Abbe 
Vignali,  who  had  administered  the  Emperor,  said 
mass  at  Longwood.  The  French  Mission  alone  was 
present. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  English  arrived.  Twelve 
grenadiers  carried  the  coffin  to  the  allee  of  the  garden. 
There  the  hearse  sent  from  France  was  placed, 
awaiting  the  remains. 

The  mantle  worn  at  Marengo  was  placed  on  this 
hearse,  on  which  General  Bertrand  laid  a  sword. 

"A  car  drawn  by  four  horses,  decked  with  funeral 
emblems,  had  been  prepared  before  the  arrival  of 
the  expedition  to  receive  the  coffin,  as  well  as  a  pall, 
and  all  the  other  suitable  trappings  of  mourning. 
When  the  sarcophagus  was  placed  on  the  car  the 
whole  was  covered  with  a  magnificent  imperial 
mantle  brought  from  Paris,  the  four  corners  of  which 
were  borne  by  Generals  Bertrand  and  Gourgaud, 
Baron  Las  Cases,  and  M.  Marchand.  At  half  past 
three  o'clock  the  funeral  car  began  to  move,  preceded 
by  a  chorister  bearing  the  cross,  and  by  the  Abbe 
Coquereau.  M.  de  Chabot  acted  as  chief  mourner. 

"All  the  authorities  of  the  island,  all  the  principal 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

inhabitants,  and  the  whole  of  the  garrison,  followed 
in  procession  from  the  tomb  to  the  quay.  But  with 
the  exception  of  the  artillerymen  necessary  to  lead 
the  horses,  and  occasionally  to  support  the  car  when 
descending  some  steep  parts  of  the  way,  the  places 
nearest  the  coffin  were  reserved  for  the  French 
Mission. 

"General  Middlemore,  although  in  a  weak  state  of 
health,  persisted  in  following  the  whole  way  on  foot, 
together  with  General  Churchill,  chief  of  the  staff  in 
India,  who  had  arrived  only  two  days  before  from 
Bombay.  The  immense  weight  of  the  coffins  and 
the  unevenness  of  the  road  rendered  the  utmost 
carefulness  necessary  throughout  the  whole  distance. 
Colonel  Trelawney  commanded  in  person  the  small 
detachment  of  artillerymen  who  conducted  the  car, 
and,  thanks  to  his  great  care,  not  the  slightest  acci- 
dent took  place.  From  the  moment  of  departure  to 
the  arrival  at  the  quay  the  cannon  of  the  forts  and 
the  Belle  Poule  fired  minute-guns.  After  an  hour's 
march  the  rain  ceased  for  the  first  time  since  the 
commencement  of  the  operations;  and  on  arriving 
in  sight  of  the  town  we  found  a  brilliant  sky.  and 
beautiful  weather." 

The  description  of  this  moving  and  picturesque 
scene  is  iar  more  touching  and  more  human  in  its 
sentiment  than  the  above: 

"When  , the  coffin  began  its  slow  descent  down 
from  the  heights  of  the  mountain,  to  the  sound  of  the 
cannon,  escorted  by  the  English  infantry,  arms  re- 
versed, the  Dead  March  of  'Saul'  played  to  the  dull 

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UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

roar  of  the  drums,  an  indescribable  emotion  took 
possession  of  the  crowd." * 


Nature,  like  the  hard  hearts  of  his  cruel  jailers, 
seemed  on  this  great  day  to  be  in  relenting  mood. 
The  teasing  wind  of  that  obstinate,  persistent  alize 
had  stopped  its  hot  and  nerve-racking  breath;  an 
air  still  and  pulseless  made  one  sensible  of  an  en- 
veloping atmosphere  of  reverential  calm.  And,  as 
though  to  typify  the  glory  of  a  man  so  great  that 
historians  seem  born  expressly  to  record  his  genius, 
the  gorgeous  colors  of  a  surpassingly  beautiful  sun- 
set beflagged  the  scene,  as  though  to  outrival  the  su- 
perb Tricolor  that  floated  at  the  poop  of  the  shallop. 

The  moving  scene  was  lighted  by  these  resplendent 
colors;  the  vivid  gold  of  the  dying  sun  softened  the 
tones  of  the  grim  rocks,  below  whose  frowning 
fortresses  along  the  beach  were  ranged  the  English 
authorities  and  the  English  troops. 

Once  the  body  was  in  possession  of  the  prince,  the 
French  commander,  there  was  heard  the  roar  of  the 
salute  from  La  Belle  Poule's  cannon,  and  the  boat 
made  its  way  across  the  cobalt  seas.  Dozens  of 
oars,  striking  the  water  in  perfect  precision,  made  a 
liquid,  rhythmic  music. 

Napoleon's  generals  were  grouped  about  the 
central  figure  of  the  handsome  young  prince.  The 
Tricolor  caught  the  dying  sun -rays  of  the  resplendent 

1  Prince  de  Joinville,  Vieux  Souvenirs. 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

sunset,  whose  effulgence  harmonized  the  pure  whites 
of  the  crews,  the  gold -braided  uniforms  of  the 
officers,  and  "the  black  rocks,"  now  illumined  with 
color,  under  the  golden  glow. 


VIII 

Once  embarked  on  its  long  voyage  across  distant 
seas  to  France,  in  that  journey  of  fifty -one  days,  did 
that  still  body  in  its  casket  say  nothing  to  the  heart 
and  mind  of  the  one  traitor  aboard?  Did  its  elo- 
quent calm  bring  no  sting  of  remorseful  regret  to 
Gourgaud?1  Did  that  unfaithful  friend  and  general 
never  repent  him  of  his  false  statements,  of  his 
assuring  English  Ministers  on  his  return  to  England 
in  May,  1818,  that  Napoleon's  illness  was  a  "farce," 
that  stricter  measures  should  be  taken  to  prevent  his 
escape,  that  "Napoleon  only  exasperates  his  keepers 


1  All  those  familiar  with  Lord  Rosebery's  Napoleon:  The  Last  Phase, 
and  with  other  English  authorities  who  have  written  on  this  sub- 
ject of  Gourgaud's  treachery,  know  that  English  historians  take  a  very 
different  view  of  General  Gourgaud's  Revelations.  Either  they  are 
treated  as  harmless — "We  are  convinced  that  he  revealed  nothing  of 
the  slightest  importance  either  now  or  afterward  in  London,"  as  Lord 
Rosebery  asserts — or  they  are  taken  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  alleges  they 
should  be  accepted,  as  the  statements  of  one  "who  acted  a  double  part" 
.  .  .  [of]  "one  who  had  been  a  sort  of  agent  for  the  British  government." 

Lord  Rosebery  takes  an  entirely  different  view  of  Gourgaud's  departure 
from  St.  Helena  and  of  his  actions  on  reaching  England.  His  contention 
is  that  "Gourgaud's  departure  is  merely  a  Russian  mission  ..."  Also 
that  Gourgaud's  departure  was  utilized  by  the  Emperor  as  a  means  "  of 
communicating  with  Europe  through  an  officer  who  could  thoroughly 
explain  the  situation  and  policy  of  Longwood." 

Masson's  point  of  view  appears  to  be  the  more  plausible  analysis  of 
a  character  as  ambiguous  as  is  that  of  Gourgaud. 

21  309 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

by  his  irritable  demands  the  better  to  hide  his  true 
designs"? 

Does  the  heart  of  a  traitor  really  beat  to  the  same 
measure  as  that  of  an  honest  man? 

The  French  ship  was  carrying  on  its  way  at  least 
one  true,  broken-hearted  friend.  Marchand,  the  Em- 
peror's devoted  body-servant — nurse,  friend,  con- 
fidant, the  valet  who  saw  in  his  master  the  greatest 
of  heroes  and  the  unconquerable  conqueror — Mar- 
chand could  finger  over,  as  piously  as  a  devout  be- 
liever his  chaplet,  the  brilliants  of  the  necklace  his 
beloved  master  had  given  him. 

As  he  lay  on  his  dying  bed,  Napoleon  had  ordered 
Marchand  to  bring  him  the  jewel,  a  string  of  superb 
diamonds,  the  one  remaining  jewel  he  possessed. 

"That  good  Hortense,"  he  said,  "gave  it  to  me 
at  La  Malmaison,  thinking  I  might  have  need  of  it. 
I  believe  it  to  be  worth  two  hundred  thousand  francs. 
Hide  it  about  thy  person.  I  give  it  thee.  I  ignore 
in  what  a  state  my  affairs  may  be  in  Europe.  It  is 
the  only  thing  of  value  of  which  I  can  dispose.  .  .  ." 

What  need  of  possessions  to  be  willed  away  for 
him  who  had  held  in  his  hand  the  scepter  of  a 
conquered  world?  .  .  . 

What  a  world  of  memories  must  have  been  evoked 
at  the  mere  mention  of  the  word  "La  Mahnaison"! 
From  Napoleon's  victorious  return  from  Egypt, 
from  Italy,  when  as  general,  then  Consul,  and  later 
when  he  mounted  to  the  steps  of  the  throne,  on  to 
the  tragic  ending  of  that  marvelous  career  of  power, 
of  a  splendor  all  but  unparalleled — to  what  a  path 

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LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

of  glory  his  "star"  had  led  him,  until,  darkened,  in 
eclipse,  he  must  stumble  along  the  calvary  of  his 
punishment,  no  star  in  sight;  and  in  every  stage  of 
these  his  great,  as  in  his  despairing,  fortunes  had 
La  Malmaison  seen  his  steps  wander  about  its  park 
and  galleries. 

A  few  days  before  starting  for  St.  Helena  Na- 
poleon had  sought  refuge  at  the  chateau.  The 
24th  of  June,  at  dinner,  Napoleon  asked  of  Hortense, 
who  alone  among  all  the  members  of  his  numerous 
family — now  pseudo-kings  and  queens  in  exile — had 
remained  at  La  Malmaison: 

"I  wish  to  retire  to  La  Malmaison.  It  is  yours. 
Will  you  give  me  hospitality?" 

Already  a  semi-prisoner,  under  the  guard  of 
General  Becker,  Napoleon  took  once  more,  and  for 
the  last  time,  the  road  he  had  trod  as  hero,  as  con- 
queror, to  the  house  where  he  had  known  all  the  best 
and  happiest  days  of  his  life,  and  where  even  at  the 
pinnacle  of  power  and  fame  "he  was  of  an  immense 
simplicity." 

It  was  from  La  Malmaison  he  took  his  journey 
across  France  to  Rambouillet,  to  Tours,  to  Poitiers, 
to  St.-Maixent,  to  Niort,  and  to  Rochefort. 

That  mistaken  moment  of  confidence  when  the 
Emperor,  with  a  naivete  that  seems  the  more 
amazing  when  one  remembers  his  own  former 
ambitious  designs  on  England,  felt  such  "confidence" 
in  English  courtesy  and  in  her  sense  of  justice  that, 
as  he  uncovered,  on  stepping  on  board  the  Bellerophon, 
he  could  exclaim,  "I  come  to  place  myself  under 

311 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  protection  of  your  prince  and  of  your  laws" — 
that  belief  in  an  implacable  enemy's  generosity  or  of 
the  allies'  magnanimity  was  the  fatal  impulse  that 
landed  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena. 

He  whose  most  soul-stirring  military  ambition 
had  been  the  conquest  of  England  to  say,  after  the 
first  formalities  had  been  interchanged  on  board  the 
Bellerophon:  "And  now  I  must  inform  myself  con- 
cerning English  customs.  ...  I  must  learn  to  con- 
form to  them,  since  I  shall  probably  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  my  life  in  England."  What  an  amazing 
state  of  mind! 

Verily,  the  occasional  lapses  in  a  right  gaging  of 
critical  situations,  at  critical  moments,  comforts  less 
brilliant  intellects  with  the  pleasing  reflection  that 
genius,  at  times,  can  prove  itself  as  dull  as  any 
mediocre  intelligence. 


IX 

On  this  return  of  all  that  was  mortal  of  Napoleon 
to  France  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  on  La  Belle  Poule's 
reaching  Cherbourg,  believed  his  own  part  in  the 
mission  of  this  transportation  of  the  remains  to  be 
at  an  end. 

But  sealed  orders  awaited  him;  he  was  com- 
manded to  transfer  the  remains  to  a  steamboat  that 
the  whole  length  of  the  Seine,  from  Havre  to  Paris, 
should  witness  the  re-entry  of  the  Conqueror  into 
his  France. 

This  program  was  not  in  the  least  to  the  taste  of 

312 


NAPOLEOX  S   ADIEU   TO    FRANCE 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

the  youthful  commander.  At  St.  Helena  he  notes: 
"The  whole  affair  transpired  between  the  English 
army,  on  one  hand,  and  our  naval  forces,  on  the  other, 
with  that  chivalry  and  serious  aspect  which  always 
accompanies  international  relations  when  confided 
to  men  of  the  sword.  In  France,  the  transportation 
of  Napoleon's  remains  took  on  quite  another  charac- 
ter. It  was  above  all  else  a  spectacle." 

At  Cherbourg  the  body  was  transferred  from  La 
Belle  Poule  to  a  steamer,  Normandie. 

A  thousand  guns  are  said  to  have  saluted  the 
arrival  of  the  bier. 

The  arrangements  on  the  Normandie  were  indeed 
spectacular.  "A  temple  with  twelve  pillars  and  a 
dome  to  cover  it  from  the  wet  and  moisture  was  sur- 
rounded with  velvet  hangings  and  silver  fringe. 
At  the  head  was  a  gold  cross,  at  the  foot  a  gold 
lamp;  other  lamps  were  kept  constantly  burning 
within,  and  vases  of  burning  incense  were  hung 
around  an  altar  hung  with  velvet  and  silver  and 
at  the  mizzen-mast  of  the  vessel,  and  four  silver 
eagles  at  each  corner  of  the  altar."1 

Spectacular  as  may  have  been  the  cortege  to  the 
eyes  and  taste  of  a  highly  bred,  fastidious  prince, 
Napoleon,  by  his  own  birth  not  so  very  far  removed 
from  the  people,  was  to  receive  along  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  where  he  had  hoped  to  lie,  those  rapturous 
acclamations  that  had  greeted  his  living  ears  on  how 
many  a  battlefield. 

And  on  what  a  scene  the  cold  November  sun  shed 


1  Thackeray,  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon. 

313 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

its  pallid  rays !  Shores  lined  with  peasants  in  holiday 
attire;  civil  authorities  scarved  with  their  tricolor 
sashes;  priests  in  gorgeous  vestments  chanting 
benedictions;  soldiers  wearing  the  fading  glories  of 
their  war-worn  uniforms;  and  from  Havre  to  the 
Parisian  suburb  of  Courbevoie  there  rang  the  never- 
ending  chorus  of  a  great  people's  shout  of  welcome 
to  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  immortal  genius  who 
had  made  France  the  rival  of  Rome. 

Up  past  the  villages,  the  farmhouses,  and  the 
forests  of  the  Seine,  the  funeral  barge  with  its  short 
casket,  covered  with  an  imperial-purple  velvet  pall, 
escorted  by  the  crew  that  had  safely  brought  the 
body  on  its  long  overseas  journey,  on  and  on  the 
silent  cortege  moved  among  the  still  waters. 

The  banks  of  the  Seine,  after  all,  as  Napoleon  had 
wished,  had  witnessed  his  apotheosis. 

Of  all  those  thousands  who  crowded  the  banks  of 
the  Seine  there  were  none  who  should  have  watched 
for  the  coming  of  their  real  liberator  with  more 
lasting  gratitude  than  the  peasants.  Not  a  farmer, 
not  a  peasant  owner  of  land  along  those  fertile  or- 
chards and  rich  meadowlands  of  Honfleur,  or  Cau- 
debec,  or  Duclair  but  was  the  richer  because  the 
man  whose  processional  cortege  was  to  most  of  them 
but  a  spectacular  ovation  had  lived,  had  liberated 
France  from  the  tyranny  of  the  Terror,  had  organ- 
ized out  of  chaos  a  magnificent  working  government, 
had  struck  from  the  hand  of  the  nobles  the  last 
of  their  feudal  rights — among  others  the  law  of 
primogeniture. 

314 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

In  giving  to  the  peasant  the  right  to  own  property 
Napoleon  had  civilized  the  people.  How  many  of 
those  ruddy-faced  farmers,  in  their  holiday  blouses, 
standing  with  eyes  glued  to  the  coming  "show," 
realized  all  they  owed  to  this  "man  of  the  people," 
as  Napoleon  proudly  called  himself,  though,  in 
reality,  he  had  all  of  the  aristocrat's  leanings. 
Even  in  our  day  it  is  the  historical  fashion  to  recall 
Napoleon's  crimes  of  ambition,  his  political  mistakes, 
his  arrogance,  and  his  vices.  The  benefits  he  con- 
ferred on  France,  above  all,  on  the  people,  are  not 
even  now  appreciated;  those  who  inherit  these  re- 
sults of  his  reign  delight  still  to  dwell  on  the  irregu- 
larities of  his  private  life  and  the  faults  of  his  political 
career. 

Among  all  those  who  stood  on  the  Seine  shores, 
those  who  most  truly  mourned  the  dead  hero,  were 
those  who  had  fought  under  him,  those  who  had 
suffered  thirst  and  hunger  in  long  marches,  those 
who  had  survived  the  frozen  horrors  of  the  Russian 
steppes. 

Chateaubriand,  though  his  hate  of  Napoleon  was 
matched  only  by  that  of  Mme.  de  Stael,  yet  gives  us 
a  picture  of  what  some  of  these  soldiers  suffered,  from 
other  than  physical  causes,  as  they  stood  on  guard, 
when  Louis  XVIII  entered  Paris  on  May  3,  1814: 

"It  was  a  regiment  of  the  Old  Guard  on  foot  who 
formed  a  wall  from  the  Pont  Neuf  to  Notre  Dame. . . . 
I  do  not  think  human  faces  have  ever  reflected  an  ex- 
pression at  once  so  menacing  and  so  terrible.  These 
grenadiers,  covered  with  wounds,  conquerors  of 

815 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Europe,  were  forced  to  salute  an  old  king,  invalided 
by  reason  of  years,  not  from  wars — spied  upon  as 
they  were  by  Russians,  Austrians,  and  Prussians  in 
their  own  Napoleon's  invaded  capital.  Some  of 
them,  their  foreheads  working,  made  their  large 
furry  cap  cover  their  eyes,  that  they  might  not  see; 
others  curved  the  corners  of  their  mouths  in  the 
scorn  of  their  anger;  others,  through  their  mus- 
taches, showed  their  teeth  like  tigers.  When  they 
presented  arms  it  was  with  a  movement  of  fury, 
and  the  noise  of  these  rattling  arms  made  one 
tremble." 

These  grenadiers,  on  this  memorable  November 
day  of  the  passage  up  the  Seine,  some  of  them, 
could  have  been  seen  trembling  from  other  causes 
than  anger.  Out  from  thatched  Normandy  farm- 
houses tottering  veterans  from  Honfleur  fields, 
from  Caudebec  garden-patches,  made  their  way  to 
the  very  edges  of  the  Seine  banks.  Some  held  their 
grandsons  by  the  hand,  little  children  brought  up  on 
the  strong  wine  of  Napoleonic  victories,  cradled  on 
the  fluctuating  sway  of  battles,  sung  to  sleep  to 
songs  of  victory.  With  hearts  beating  to  suffoca- 
tion, the  breath  as  hot  on  lip  as  though  to  rush  a 
charge,  these  soldiers  of  Napoleon  watched  the  com- 
ing of  his  bier  as  a  lover  might  that  of  his  dead 
mistress. 

The  straining  eyes  at  last  caught  sight  of  the 
cortege. 

As  on  and  on  the  cortege  moved  among  the  still 
Waters,  the  cries  and  shouts  that  rang  up  from  the 

316 


LAST  JOURNEY  UP  THE  SEINE 

shores  were  like  unto  a  continuous  song  of  praise 
and  rapture,  from  Havre  to  Courbevoie.  There 
were  some  among  those  thousands  who  were  mute. 
There  were  the  scarred  veterans  down  whose  fur- 
rowed cheeks  the  tears  were  streaming. 

Not  one  of  those  who  stood  paying  their  tribute, 
by  their  noisy  shouts  or  by  the  silent  eloquence  of 
their  tears,  but  must  have  felt  oppressed  with  a 
sense  of  something  within,  stirring  their  souls,  that 
was  at  once  impressive  and  intangible;  for  that 
which  was  floating  upon  the  Seine  waters  was  all 
that  was  left  of  a  power  that  had  been  grandiose  and 
incomplete,  an  apparition  almost  fantastic  in  its 
comet-like  appearance  and  disappearance,  a  genius 
that  was  touched  with  the  divine  ascending  flame, 
but  whose  soul  was  racked  by  an  overmastering 
ambition.  Napoleon  embodied  in  himself,  as  it 
were,  the  elements  which  make  the  dual  mystery — 
the  inequalities  of  all  human  life. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TO    THE    DOCKS    OF    ROUEN 


Doric  column,  with  its  dulled  bronze  rings, 
its  blurred  bas-reliefs,  and  the  eagle  crowning 
the  pillar  of  stone,  had  vanished.  The  moving 
memories  evoked  by  the  commemorative  column — 
erected  August  15,  1844 — had  swept  before  the  men- 
tal vision  such  thoughts  and  reflections — such  a 
review  of  France's  past  grandeur,  of  all  the  procession 
of  historic  events  since  that  decorative  funeral  barge 
passed  up  the  very  river-path  we  were  following — 
that  eyes  and  sense  were  closed  to  all  nearer  ob- 
jective impressions. 

Slowly,  gradually,  the  ever-continuing  grandeur  of 
the  scene  of  which  we  were  a  part  recaptured  the 
wandering  mind.  The  great  forests,  now  lining  both 
sides  of  the  river,  reasserted  their  claim  to  recog- 
nition of  their  beauty. 

The  last  cobra-like  sweep  the  Seine  had  taken, 
from  Duclair  to  La  Bouille,  turning  to  compass  the 
curve  that  led  on  to  Le  Val  de  la  Haye,  had  brought 
us  between  the  two  magnificent  forests  of  Roumare 
and  the  forest  of  Rouvray.  So  unexpected  are  these 
superb  hills  of  trees,  so  vast  their  extent,  that  one 

318 


THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN 

almost  feels  them  to  be  a  personal  possession — one 
more  tie  between  France  and  America.  The  sight 
of  such  great  forested  hills  appeals,  perhaps,  pecul- 
iarly to  us  Americans.  We  have  a  proprietary  sense 
of  possessing  such  unmatched  glories  as  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  the  Green  Mountains,  the  White  Mountains, 
the  Alleghanies,  and  the  Rocky  Mountains.  To 
find  tracts  of  land  which  reveal  to  the  eye  forests 
evocative  of  a  primeval  state — adorning  a  river  so 
little  known  as  a  tourist  pleasure  trip — and  to  en- 
counter such  wildness  so  near  Rouen  and  Paris — 
these  are  the  surprises  that  touch  with  peculiar 
appeal  an  American  response  to  beauty  allied  to 
unspoiled  nature. 

A  mass  of  ruins  crowned  the  hills,  just  beyond 
the  little  hamlet  of  Le  Val  de  la  Haye.  Should 
curiosity  tempt  you  to  take  a  run  from  Rouen 
to  these  imposing  and  interesting  remains  of  the 
chateau-fort — called  Le  Chateau  de  Robert  le 
Diable — for  your  pains  you  would  have  the  double 
reward  of  attempting  to  rebuild  the  superb 
eleventh-century  fortress  and  you  would  enjoy 
an  all-embracing  view  from  the  great  heights 
of  the  hill.  Undulating  mountains,  plains,  towns, 
and  chateaus — the  latter  surrounded  by  their  vast 
parks,  would  unroll  themselves  before  you — that 
great  carpet  of  earth's  surface  on  which  man  has 
written  his  longings,  desires,  and  ambitions. 

Hamlets  and  villages,  such  as  Quenneport  and 
Biessart,  with  their  village  church  spires,  their  bright 
roofs,  gardens,  and  grain-fields  now  disputed,  with  the 

319 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

overhanging  forests,  their  rights  to  live — these  human 
habitations  made  brilliant  spots  of  color.  Some  of 
the  small  villas — pavilions,  our  French  friends  would 
call  them — proved  they  were  those  dreams  that  had 
come  true  for  many  a  sous-hoarding  petit  rentier. 
Years  of  saving,  years  of  unremitting  toil,  years  of 
hardships  borne  uncomplainingly,  each  trim  little 
house  we  had  passed  represented;  the  great  object 
ahead  ever  kept  in  view  had  made  the  long  years 
pass  quickly.  To  possess  just  such  a  bit  of  land, 
large  enough  for  a  vegetable  garden,  a  small  flower 
garden,  a  cozy,  comfortable  house — these  possessions, 
to  the  smaller  bourgeois  class,  mean  the  crowning  of  a 
life  of  labor.  To  retire  to  such  a  home,  to  be  a 
rentier,  however  small  the  income,  are  the  dreams 
that  haunt  the  brain  of  every  intelligent,  laborious 
Frenchman.  The  dot  system  of  marriage  is  one 
great  help;  the  restriction  of  the  family  to  one  or 
two  offspring  is  another  aider  and  abettor  of  a 
Frenchman's  longing  to  be  independent,  to  enjoy  a 
few  years  of  happy  content  after  life's  fever  of  work 
and  anxiety. 

The  secret  of  French  thrift,  of  French  industry,  of 
the  French  love  for  money  find  their  answer  in  such 
hopes  and  dreams. 

To  the  peasant  as  well  as  to  the  petit  bourgeois — 
here  is  the  gift  Napoleon  gave  to  the  people.  In 
abrogating  the  law  of  primogeniture,  in  forcing  all 
property  to  be  equally  divided  between  heirs,  the 
organizing  genius  of  Napoleon  prepared  the  way  for 
a  France  universally  prosperous  and  ambitious. 

320 


THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN 

Lamartine,  in  company  with  many  others,  has  not 
been  just  to  the  great  man  he  attacked.  The  im- 
mense reconstructive  work  of  Napoleon,  in  his  con- 
sular days,  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  imperial  career, 
proves  him  to  rank  among  the  greatest  of  statesmen. 
No  other  French  ruler,  save  Henri  IV,  has  ever  had 
such  vision  to  create  a  greater  France — for  the  good 
of  the  people. 

The  vine-covered  houses  had  a  deeper  interest 
now  when  one  remembered  all  they  stood  for.  The 
bright  sun  shining  on  the  ripened  grain,  the  great 
potato-patches  just  now  showing  their  delicate 
tasseled  flower,  the  long  stretches  of  cabbages  and 
cauliflowers  that  give  to  every  French  landscape 
such  jadelike  colors,  these  prosperous  lands  spelled 
the  old,  the  ever-renascent  French  vigor  of  energy 
and  industry. 

A  dazzling  white  sail,  cutting  the  blues  of  sky  and 
river,  and  then  more  and  more  sails,  steamboats, 
and  every  few  half-miles  a  huge  transport  or  foreign 
ship  announced  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  our 
voyage. 

Dieppedalle  and  Quevilly  were  passed,  the  former 
a  charming  little  town  full  of  color  and  movement. 
The  ships  unloading  along  the  river-banks  sent  long, 
polychrome  shadows  across  the  blues  of  the  Seine. 
There  were  violets,  reds,  and  deep  purples  melting 
into  the  liquid  surface.  Clouds  rising  from  behind 
the  hills  would  find  their  soft  contours  delicately  re- 
flected in  the  river  edges.  The  later  afternoon  glow 

321 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

was  tinting  the  whole  landscape  with  an  ineffably 
vaporous,  luminous  quality.  The  hills  were  long 
blue  ridges  of  color;  the  river  was  a  mirror  of  con- 
stantly changing  reflections — like  the  mind  of  a 
poet,  reflecting  only  beautiful  thoughts. 

Tall  chimneys  pouring  dense  columns  of  smoke  to 
darken  the  sky,  succeeded  to  the  spires  of  parish 
churches.  The  scene  had  changed  from  one  of 
rustic  and  natural  beauty  to  one  teeming  with 
activity. 

We  were  cruising  among  the  close  little  islands  that 
precede  Rouen's  great  docks.  Noise  of  thumping, 
grinding  machinery;  noise  of  heavy  hammering; 
noise  of  men  loading  and  unloading  cargoes;  noise 
of  puffing  steam-engines — the  river  now  choked  with 
ships,  sailing-ships,  masts  splashing  the  blues  of  the 
sky  like  huge  sheets  spread  out — and  everywhere 
movement,  life,  activity,  and  noise — we  had  indeed 
returned  to  our  world. 


ii 

In  approaching  Croisset,  a  suburb  of  Rouen,  I  was 
curious  to  see  how  much  of  the  great  industrial  and 
commercial  spirit  of  the  age  had  encroached  on 
Gustave  Flaubert's  old  home.  Only  a  few  years  ago 
"the  shrine,"  as  the  writer's  admirers  called  his 
house  and  the  charming  little  Louis  XV  pavilion 
where  he  worked,  were  as  he  had  last  seen  them. 
One  could  watch,  as  had  he  and  his  beloved  mother 
and  niece,  from  the  old  house  that  was  at  once  "gay 

322 


THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN 

and  agreeable,"  the  Seine  that  seemed  framed  in  a 
superb  tulip-tree,  and  the  charming  view  across  the 
lawns,  with  their  nodding  flowers  and  parterres. 

The  reverent  care  with  which  all  the  Flaubert 
souvenirs  had  been  placed  and  catalogued — the 
"souvenirs,"  the  manuscripts,  the  table,  the  very 
chair  he  had  used  in  "those  tormenting  hours"  when 
Flaubert's  toil  over  his  books  was,  according  to  his 
own  confessions,  rather  an  agony  than  a  delight — 
all  these  precious  reminders  of  this  master  of  style 
were  as  sacredly  preserved  as  a  devout  Catholic 
enshrines  the  relics  of  a  saint.  One  could  walk  along 
the  terrace,  under  the  lindens — the  terrace  that  ran 
just  above  the  old  house — and  follow  in  imagination 
that  long  coil  of  seven  years'  toil  spun  out  here  that 
produced  the  great  French  masterpiece,  Madame 
Bovary. 

The  long  white  house  was  old,  as  the  habitation 
of  a  recluse  should  be.  Other  monks,  dedicated  to 
another  worship,  had  lived  here,  centuries  ago.  The 
monks  from  the  Abbaye  of  St.-Ouen  came  here  for 
their  summer  rest  and  for  healthful  recreation.  For 
them  also  there  must  be  the  calm  of  country  life  and 
prolonged  hours  of  silence  and  reverie. 

Flaubert  believed  it  was  in  this  very  conventual 
country  house  1'Abbe  Prevost  had  written  his 
immortal  Manon  Lescaut,  for  it  was  known  the 
abbaye  had  had  as  its  guest,  for  several  months,  the 
celebrated  author. 

Flaubert  did  not  work  in  this  interesting  old 
house.  The  small  Louis  XV  pavilion  built  directly 

323 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

over  the  river  shores  was  his  sanctuary.  There  his 
seclusion  was  as  carefully  guarded,  by  his  tender 
and  watchful  mother,  as  though  she  were  the  guard- 
ian angel  of  a  demigod. 

"It  is  time  to  return  to  La  Bovary"  he  would 
say,  and  half  the  night  would  be  spent  in  torture 
torments  to  find  the  right  word,  in  chiseling  a  phrase 
to  greater  perfection. 

Flaubert's  work  has  filled  hundreds  of  the  pages  of 
his  critics.  Jules  Lemaitre  applied  the  revealing 
searchlight  of  his  penetrative,  analytic  genius  to 
what  he  called  the  psychology  of  Flaubert's  "case"; 
for  there  was  indeed  something  abnormal  in  the 
methods  pursued  by  Flaubert. 

Flaubert,  in  his  search  for  the  right  word,  brought 
to  the  task  the  same  patience  and  tireless  interest 
of  those  given  over  to  scientific  research.  Lemaitre, 
in  his  genial,  human  way  of  calling  things  by  their 
right  names,  wondered  if  Flaubert,  poor  and  ob- 
scure, could  have  given  so  much  valuable  time  to  the 
pursuit  of  perfection?  Also  whether  it  was  quite 
honest  for  a  writer  to  count  all  the  hours  he  spent 
lying  on  his  lounge,  smoking  a  cigarette,  lolling 
out  of  a  window  "as  hours  spent  in  search  of  a 
word"? 

"I  find  it  difficult  to  comprehend  how  one  could 
devote  eight  days  and  eight  nights  to  the  writing  of 
fifty  or  sixty  lines. 

"This  degree  of  difficulty  in  writing  appears  to  me 
unnatural.  In  fact,  I  have  doubts.  Above  all,  I 
doubt  when  I  reflect  with  what  ease  Flaubert  wrote 

324 


THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN 

to  his  friends  letters  of  twenty  pages,  in  a  morning, 
letters  that  prove  really  a  very  elaborate  style. 

"In  truth,  he  was  an  idler,  perhaps  very  lazy  in 
spite  of  all  one  says.  To  stroll  about  his  vast  library, 
going  from  one  book  to  another,  to  lounge  on  his 
divan,  smoking  innumerable  little  clay  pipes,  while 
thinking  vaguely  about  his  page,  first  begun,  in 
ruminating  over  phrases — such  was  his  conception, 
probably,  of  'working  like  a  nigger.'"1 

The  little  pavilion  finally  came  into  sight.  What 
a  pathetic  picture  of  desolation  it  presented!  The 
huge  factory  had  encroached  on  "the  gay  and 
agreeable"  old  house.  It  seemed  to  have  been 
engulfed  in  the  modern  monstrosity.  Where  were 
the  pretty  lawns,  the  flower-beds,  and  the  trees  of 
the  long  terrace?  The  tulipier  superbe,  the  house, 
the  gardens  were  lost  forever. 

Flaubert's  temple  remains.  The  famous  terrace 
above  the  little  house,  where  the  writer  and  his 
friends  met,  where  he  walked  daily,  where  later, 
after  his  death,  his  friends,  received  by  Louis  Bouil- 
het,  his  alter  ego — would  meet  annually  to  com- 
memorate the  anniversary  of  his  birth — the  some- 
what sickly  trees  of  the  terrace  could  scarcely  be 
seen. 

This  desiccation  of  a  literary  shrine  by  the  rage  of 
commercialism  seems  significant.  We  are  living  in 
a  world  perpetually  at  war:  the  battle  between 
idealism  and  materialism  is  waged  at  our  very 
doors.  What  is  to  remain?  Are  we  come  to  the 

1  Jules  Lemaltre,  Lea  Contemporains  Huitieme  Strie,  Mes  Souvenirs. 
22  325 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

days  when  one  must  enter  a  convent  to  be  sure  of 
securing  quiet,  calm — and  where  also  one  entombs 
one's  fame?  Modern  writers,  I  take  it,  have  also 
been  bitten  by  the  rabies  of  commercialism.  What 
writer  now  writes  for  the  sole  glory  of  art?  What 
lover  of  to-day  would  write  to  his  beloved,  as 
Flaubert  did  to  Louise  Colet: 

"Va — aime  plutot  I' art  que  moi;  cette  affection-Id 
ne  te  manquera  pas.  .  .  .  Adore  1'idole,  die  seule  est 
vraie  parce  qu'elle  seule  est  eternelle." 

Read  any  life  of  Flaubert  and  you  will  be  the 
better  able  to  appreciate  the  changes  which  the  war 
has  brought  to  the  Seine  shores. 

Rouen  itself  in  war-time  discovered  its  importance 
as  the  second  northern  French  port.  There  were 
times  indeed  when  Havre  feared  her  claims  to  being 
the  first  of  the  great  northern  ports  might  be  denied. 
Rouen's  docks  were  congested  for  long  miles  out 
into  the  Seine;  war-vessels  of  every  type  and  style 
were  ranged  in  deep  rows  along  her  shores.  To 
pass  between  them,  as  I  had  the  privilege  accorded 
me,  by  the  Havre  commandant  in  September,  1918, 
was  like  passing  in  review  of  a  world's  fleet.  The 
sight  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten.  It  was  a 
stupendous  proof  of  the  victory  won  by  England's 
supremacy  of  the  sea. 

As  our  boat  now  pushed  on  and  on  in  this  year  of 
victory  the -river  shores  still  showed  what  the  Allied 
nations  had  been  taught  of  the  uses  of  the  Seine  as 
a  great  highway  and  of  the  value  of  Rouen  as  a  port. 
Hundreds  of  great  ships  disputed  anchorage  with 

326 


THE  DOCKS  OF  ROUEN 

canal-boats,  sailing-craft,  steam-tugs,  and  torpedo- 
boats. 

The  Seine  has  come  indeed  into  her  own.  The 
Thames  alone  is  her  European  rival  from  the  point 
of  view  of  maritime  activity. 

There  were  tootings,  signaling,  whistles  were 
blown,  great  hawsers  were  thrown,  and  the  Havre 
boat  had  come  to  its  Rouen  docks. 

Our  inland  voyage  was  over. 

The  vision  of  the  beauty  revealed,  of  France's 
prosperity  and  of  her  grandeur,  were  but  the  pro- 
phetic vision  of  all  she  would  achieve  in  the  centuries 
to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


ROUEN — SEEN    IN    A    DAY 


grinding  of  cranes,  the  smell  of  tar,  the  aro- 
*•  matic  odors  of  grain,  of  dried  fish,  of  oils  in 
barrels,  the  slouching  figures  of  longshoremen,  of 
Chinese  coolies  handling  boxes,  and  of  negroes 
shoveling  coal  from  barges  to  crates — here  were  the 
proofs  that  we  had  indeed  returned  to  the  great 
world. 

Rouen's  docks  proclaimed  her  place  among  the 
more  important  ports  of  the  world.  Her  forces  of 
after-the-war  activities,  as  we  have  seen,  reach  out 
miles  beyond  her  actual  quays.  This  long  stretch 
of  a  river-packed  shore  with  its  massed  shipping 
might  be  New  York's  crowded  docks,  or  those  of  the 
Thames  or  the  Clyde.  All  great  ports  have  a  family 
likeness.  Commerce  presents  the  same  hard-lined 
face  the  world  over. 

Rouen  is  now  transformed.  She  is  the  modern 
city;  the  tram-cars  rattling  along  the  broad  boule- 
vard yonder,  the  rushing  cars,  the  network  of  tele- 
graph poles,  tell  you  she  is  the  sister  city  of  all  the 

live  cities  of  our  teeming  world. 

338 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

And  yet — and  yet — as  one  approaches  the  much- 
loved,  much-lauded  city  there  is  seen  from  the  river 
one  sign,  rising  skyward,  that  proclaims  Rouen  holds 
fast  to  the  jewels  in  her  antique  crown  of  beauty. 

Like  a  giant  arrow  aimed  to  touch  the  skies,  the 
great  cathedral  lantern-spire  rivals  the  uprising  hills. 
The  towering  mass  of  the  cathedral  itself  o'ertops 
the  gray  mass  of  the  city  roofs  and  closely  packed 
houses,  as  its  grandeur  and  beauty  now  stand  almost 
unrivaled  since  Rheims  must  take  its  widowed 
place  among  the  great  ruins  of  antiquity. 

It  was  this  first,  overpowering  spectacle  of  Rouen's 
cathedral,  set  like  a  monster  jewel  below  the  uprising 
hills,  hills  that  seemed  earth's  protective  guardian- 
ship of  this  Rouennais  treasure,  that  fixed  and  en- 
tranced the  seeing  eye  and  sense. 

As  we  hurried  along  the  crowded,  bustling  streets, 
the  shock  of  the  city's  ultra-modernity  would  have 
had  its  benumbing,  dampering  effect  did  we  not 
know  Rouen's  great  architectural  glories  are  re- 
ligiously preserved;  that  through  the  glaring  mon- 
strosities of  electrical  signs,  music-hall  advertise- 
ments, shops  showing  every  variety  of  merchandise, 
and  open-air  restaurants  with  the  blare  of  their 
gramophone,  negro  choruses,  and  jazz  music  filling 
the  streets,  one  could  still  rebuild  the  old,  superb 
medieval  and  Renaissance  Rouen.  For  there  are 
still  dark  and  tortuous  streets;  there  are  still 
image-sculptured  houses,  with  their  gable  roofs  and 
quaint  dormer  windows;  there  are  still  slimy  alleys, 
beyond  whose  tottering,  grimy-faced  houses  you  may 

329 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

catch  the  lace- worked  apse  of  a  noble  Gothic  church; 
and  of  churches,  of  every  age  since  churches  were 
built  in  this  Norman  capital,  there  are  enough  to 
delight  the  lovers  of  architecture  for  days  and  days. 

For  us,  alas!  there  was  to  be  but  a  single  day  in 
which  to  review  the  glories  of  this  city  of  churches  and 
of  Joan  of  Arc. 

We  were  due  at  Amiens,  to  begin  the  tour  of  the 
more  northern  devastated  regions  on  the  morrow. 

Was  it  loss  or  gain — this  enforced,  hurried  survey 
of  Rouen's  treasures  and  beauties?  With  quickened 
vision  comes  keener-edged  impressions.  Never  be- 
fore, in  more  leisurely  wanderings,  had  the  archi- 
tectural and  historical  records  of  Rouen's  long  life  as 
a  city  produced  as  lasting,  as  perdurable  an  effect. 

In  this  rapid  survey,  a  charm  indefinable,  but  one 
replete  with  a  peculiar  suggestive  quality,  seemed  to 
haunt  every  step  of  our  pilgrimage.  We  were  in 
pursuit  of  the  city  Charles  VII  saw  when  he  made 
his  triumphal  entry,  in  great  state  and  magnificence, 
after  Talbot's  unsuccessful  attempts  to  hold  the 
great  Norman  capital  Henry  V  of  England  had 
conquered. 

The  city  Charles  VII  would  have  seen  was  the 
city  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Its  narrow,  tortuous  streets 
were  lined  with  wooden  houses  whose  sculptured 
fagades  and  irregular  outlines  made  those  rich  con- 
trasts in  tones  and  line  we  moderns,  in  making  a  cult 
of  the  picturesque,  seek  far  and  wide. 

The  smells  and  odors  of  that  medieval  city  could 
be  distinguished  a  full  league  away — and  this  far- 

330 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

reaching  breath  was  still  to  be  breathed  as  late  as 
the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Filth  and 
undrained  streets  in  this  walled  town  brought  about 
such  a  succession  of  death-dealing  diseases,  of 
plagues,  and  of  pests  as  only  a  tough,  Norman- 
peopled  city  could  survive.1 

Tapestries,  brocades,  Oriental  carpets,  standards 
and  flags,  magnificent  costumes  and  jewels,  and  the 
sonorous  brasses  of  trumpets  and  silver-tongued 
flutes  were  the  decorative  and  martial  elements 
which  could  turn  a  filthy  medieval  city  into  a  ban- 
quet for  the  eyes — one  which,  for  all  our  modern 
inventions,  our  drain-pipes,  and  the  pride  we  take  in 
our  plumbing,  we  can  never  hope  to  rival. 

The  late  kings  who  came  to  Rouen  on  their  way 
to  Havre  or  to  the  Normandy  coast — Henri  II 
among  others,  with  Diane  de  Poitiers  sitting  beside 
him — pillion  fashion,  the  two  making  the  tour  of  the 
city  on  the  occasion  of  Henri  II's  memorable  visit, 
when  Rouen  outdid  itself  to  celebrate  so  great  an 
honor  as  its  king's  honoring  of  his  amie — these 
royal  visitors  would  have  seen  the  city  in  its  Renais- 
sance splendor.  The  great  changes  made  in  the 
last  hundred  years  have  been  the  leveling  of  the  city 
walls,  its  moats  turned  into  boulevards,  its  draw- 
bridges, great  gateways,  and  the  marvels  of  its  ani- 
mated, sculptured  houses  torn  down.  The  loss  of 
these  latter  can  never  be  sufficiently  mourned,  for 
the  Rouen  of  not  more  than  fifty  years  ago  was  still 
a  city  of  rare,  unique  streets,  adorned  with  houses 

1  Vieur  Rouen. 

331 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

so  exquisitely  carved  one  could  wish  each  one  had 
been  preserved  under  glass. 


II 

Whether  one  passes  now  under  the  gilded  archway 
of  La  Grosse  Horloge  into  the  busiest  of  all  the 
Rouen  streets — its  true  artery — the  great  clock 
having  given  its  name  to  the  street;  whether  one 
pushes  one's  way  through  the  throng  of  pedestrians 
who  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  crowd  the  too 
narrow  thoroughfare;  or  whether  one  takes  the  short 
cut  through  streets  running  from  the  rue  Jeanne 
d'Arc — one's  feet  turn,  as  though  magnet-drawn,  to 
the  great  cathedral. 

For  us  there  could  be  but  the  brief  glancing  tribute 
of  renewed  wonder  at  those  contrasting  architectural 
styles  in  the  superb  fagade  which  endow  it  with  a 
character  unique  among  great  French  ecclesiastical 
masterpieces. 

The  Romanesque  base  of  the  Tower  of  St.-Romain 
flowering  into  the  ogival  upper  structure — this  tow- 
er being  the  sole  survivor  of  the  original  cathedral 
of  the  thirteenth  century  (1200)  consumed  by  fire — 
the  simplicity  and  solidity  of  this  uprising  tower 
enhance  the  florescent  delicacy  of  the  Tour  de 
Beurre. 

For  close  study  of  the  famous  sculptures  on  the 
porches,  the  laces  of  the  Gothic  balustrades,  pin- 
nacles, statues,  niches,  and  flying-buttresses,  for  an 
inspection  of  the  interesting  variety  of  design  in  the 

332 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

many  windows,  one  must  have  at  one's  disposal  days, 
even  weeks,  not  hours. 

One  view  I  could  not  forgo.  Passing  into  the 
rue  St. -Remain  and  turning  to  the  right,  one  comes 
upon  the  full  majestic  mass  of  the  cathedral's  great 
apse,  the  transepts,  the  upspringing  flying-but- 
tresses, the  crown  of  the  Tour  de  Beurre,  and  the 
flight  heavenward  of  the  tapering,  the  incredibly  tall 
lantern.  From  no  other  point  of  view  can  the 
imposing  ensemble  of  the  grandeur  of  the  cathedral 
be  thus  grasped.  Not  even  Chartres  can  present  so 
wonder-filling  a  presentment  of  stones  piled  on  stones, 
curved  in  lines  of  harmonious  beauty,  carved  as 
though  by  magic-endowed  fingers,  and  with  that 
aspiring  spiral  of  the  great  lantern  that  typifies  the 
living  faith  that  built  this  Gothic  masterpiece. 


in 

Down  the  rue  St.-Romain,  as  you  walk,  you  come 
upon  one  of  the  famous  "views"  so  often  reproduced 
by  etchers  and  painters. 

The  street  is  narrow;  there  are  agreeably  over- 
hanging eaves  of  old  houses;  there  are  certain  odors 
that  prick  the  fancy  to  rebuild  the  older,  smelly 
Rouen;  and  at  the  end  of  the  short  street,  in  perfect 
perspective,  there  stands  the  jewel  of  the  church  all 
the  world  knows  as  St.-Maclou.  The  breath  quick- 
ens; the  Rouen  of  a  far-away,  lost  century  is  before 
one. 

That  first  ecstatic  vision  pursues  one.     Whether 

333 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

one  stands  before  the  elaborate  triple  porch,  the  eye 
carried  on  and  on,  and  up  and  up,  from  the  laces  of 
the  pediment  to  the  statues,  from  the  statues  to  the 
faery  grace  of  the  cock-crowned  stone  spire;  whether 
one  pauses  before  the  door  Jean  Goujon  carved,  or, 
on  entering  the  church,  whether  one  eyes  the  tower 
that  becomes  a  lantern  in  the  interior  of  the  church, 
"a  Norman  feature,"  or  whether  one  follows  the 
winding  curves  of  the  celebrated  stairway  leading 
to  the  organ-loft,  or  whether  one  tarries  before  the 
jeweled  stained-glass  windows — no  view  of  St.-. 
Maclou's  architectural  or  ornamental  glories  can 
outdo  that  first  view  from  the  narrow  St.-Romain 
street. 

What  other  French  town  or  city  can  yield  as  does 
Rouen  such  Old  World  groupings  of  picturesque 
streets,  old  houses,  and  Gothic  and  Renaissance 
architectural  achievements? 


IV 

After  an  hour  of  craning  one's  neck  to  follow  the 
older  Christian  world's  effort  to  carry  the  symbols  of 
its  faith  to  the  very  portals  of  the  skies,  it  was  with 
a  common  impulse  we  turned  our  feet  to  the  open 
square  before  St.-Ouen. 

In  England  the  bit  of  garden  at  the  side  of  the 
church  would  be  called  a  cathedral  close. 

A  true  garden,  however,  we  found  it.  There  were 
flaming  flower-beds,  elm  and  pine  trees,  and  smooth, 
well-kept  lawns.  There  were  also  inviting  benches 

334 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

where,  also  as  usual,  one  could  not  hope  to  find  a 
seat.  One  may  live  in  France  for  a  lifetime,  yet  the 
secret  of  how  it  comes  that  so  many  well-dressed 
loungers  and  so  many  girls  and  middle-aged  women 
find  time  to  pass  hours  sitting  on  a  bench  in  a  square 
or  garden,  watching  the  passers-by  as  though  they 
had  taken  seats  at  a  show — this  secret  will  never  be 
revealed. 

As  we  sat  watching,  in  our  turn,  the  laughing, 
romping  groups  of  children  at  play  in  the  garden 
paths,  a  certain  statue  caught  the  eye. 

Above  its  pedestal,  the  figure,  clad  in  a  short  tunic, 
had  an  arresting,  authoritative  air.  Curiosity  spurred 
one  to  learn  the  motive  of  the  imperious  gesture  of 
the  right  arm  and  forefinger  pointing  downward 
with  an  air  of  possessorship. 

The  inscription  on  the  pedestal  gave  us  the  secret 
of  that  autocratic  pose.  For  a  true  conqueror  was 
Rollo — pirate  chief  of  Norman  invaders — he  whose 
ruse  and  cunning  forced  the  French  King  Charles 
VI  to  give  him  this  rich  land  of  Normandy  (Neustria) 
with  Rouen  as  its  capital.  "This  land  over  which  I 
rule — I  keep,"  reads  the  inscription  on  the  column. 
And  keep  it  and  rule  it  indeed  did  Rollo  and  all  of 
his  imperious  descendants. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  story  as  that  of  those 
adventurous  Normans?  Will  there  ever  be  another 
as  romantic,  as  wonderful  as  the  turning  of  pirates 
into  the  thriftiest,  the  most  law-abiding  of  French 
citizens? 

When  out  from  the  glacial  fjords  the  vikings  set 

335 


IIP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

forth  on  their  great  adventures  to  seek  their  "place 
in  the  sun";  when  they  pushed  their  high-pro  wed 
boats  up  through  the  verdant  reaches  of  the  Seine; 
when  their  envious  eyes,  weary  of  gray  skies,  of  fog- 
cloaked  mountains,  of  icy  climates,  feasted  on  the 
magnificent  river,  its  shores  tapestried  with  fruit- 
trees  in  blossom,  its  fertile  fields  the  home  of  fat 
cattle,  its  banks  lined  with  snug  farms  and  peopled 
villages;  with  its  churches  dedicated  to  a  mighty, 
unknown  God;  with  convents  as  big  as  towns,  gorged 
with  riches — what  wonder  these  adventurers,  these 
ferocious  warriors,  these  men  of  giant  stature  and 
will  of  iron,  fought,  pillaged,  laid  waste  the  land  they 
determined  to  win  as  theirs  or  die? 

The  French  king  finally  ceded  Neustria — the  great 
Normandy  of  our  day — to  Rollo  or  Rou — William's 
ancestor — the  most  politic  of  all  those  dreaded 
Northmen  who  had  sailed  up  the  "Route  des 
Cygnes,"  their  ivory  horns  sounding  their  dread 
approach. 

Rollo  had  decided  to  settle  himself  in  Rouen. 

He  and  his  band  of  greedy  followers  were  to  go 
home  no  longer  to  the  icy,  northern  winters.  Rollo, 
invading  these  French  lands  after  the  manner  of  his 
people,  by  simply  establishing  himself  in  Rouen,  had 
forced  the  king's  hand.  Of  a  dangerous,  powerful, 
ferocious  invader,  Charles  the  Simple — not  so  simple 
as  his  name — was  to  make  a  subject  and  a  convert. 
Rollo  became  the  "man"  of  the  French  king;  he 
ruled  Normandy  (Neustria)  as  its  Christianized 
duke;  he  wedded  the  king's  daughter  as  he  had 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

accepted  baptism,  as  the  accepted  price  for  both 
submission  as  vassal  and  son-in-law  and  as  a  son 
of  the  Church  whose  rich  abbeys  he  was  now  to  rule, 
after  having  despoiled  them. 

All  the  world  knows  what  the  Normans  made  of 
Normandy.  These  wild-haired,  fierce-eyed,  semi- 
savage  Northmen  were  first  of  all  to  submit  to  a 
greater  power  than  even  the  rule  of  iron  law  estab- 
lished by  their  great  chief;  they  were  to  be  subdued 
by  climate.  The  temperate  airs,  the  soft,  suave 
coloring  of  the  Seine  shores,  the  constant  humidity 
of  the  soil  were  to  play  upon  nerves  and  hardy 
muscles.  The  ferocious  Northman  was  to  become 
the  Frenchified  Norman.  Not  so  thoroughly  French- 
ified as  to  obliterate  all  trace,  however,  of  the  intrepid 
and  colder-veined  viking.  So  persistent  have  been 
the  Norman  traits,  the  Norman  characteristics,  that 
even  to-day,  after  a  thousand  years  of  occupation, 
even  by  Frenchmen  Normandy  is  considered  as 
having  a  semi-national  character.  One  speaks  of 
"going  down  into  Normandy"  as  one  would  never 
think  of  thus  specializing  a  trip  to  any  other  French 
province  save  Brittany. 

Habits  of  northern  frugality;  distrust  of  one's 
neighbors,  of  strangers;  of  a  passion  for  litigation 
(the  survival  of  the  old  fighting  spirit) ;  of  a  passion- 
ate devotion  to  industry;  and  a  tribal  preference  for 
living  strictly  en  famille — here  you  have  the  dis- 
tinguishing Norman  traits. 

The  Frenchman's  gaiety,  his  expansiveness,  his 
making  of  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  an  industry — you 

337 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

look  in  vain  in  serious  Normandy  for  these  French 
attributes.  The  art  of  Flaubert,  of  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant is  an  art  veiled  with  the  sad,  somber,  gray  mists 
of  the  Norman  skies. 

Here  in  Rouen  little  is  left  of  the  old  Norman  city 
save  its  famous  cathedral  and  those  churches  whose 
beauty  would  make  the  fame  of  any  city. 

The  Renaissance  with  Francis  I  gave  to  Rouen's 
civic  buildings  imperishable  splendor. 


It  was  on  the  little  green  bench  in  the  garden  we 
decided  what  we  must  sacrifice,  and  what  could  still 
be  seen  of  this  Rouen  treasure  city  in  the  few  hours 
remaining  to  us. 

A  further  tour  of  the  dozen  or  more  interesting 
churches  must  be  abandoned;  neither  could  we  hope 
to  follow  the  calvary  Joan  of  Arc  trod  from  her  im- 
prisonment to  her  burning  at  the  stake  in  Le  Vieux 
Marche;  the  glories  of  the  Hdtel  de  Ville,  of  the 
unsurpassable  Palais  de  Justice,  must  await  a  more 
lengthened  stay;  and  the  museum,  with  its  wealth 
of  gathered  treasures  from  every  part  of  Normandy, 
must  be  a  memory. 

For  once,  indeed,  the  glories  of  Rouen  must  suffer 
an  eclipse.  The  modern  rush,  the  fever  of  getting 
on,  was  hurrying  my  friend  to  quickened  speed. 

The  day  had  been  a  day  of  all  others  in  which 
swiftly  to  review  the  wonderful  city.  The  golden 
weather  that  had  followed  us — a  celestial  benedic- 

'  338 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

tion — was  even  now  turning  every  Rouen  street, 
every  church  fagade,  and  every  sculptured  house 
and  palace  into  an  illumined  shrine. 

We  had  also  been  lucky  in  the  day  itself.  It  was 
Sunday. 

There  was,  therefore,  all  the  more  hope  of  hearing 
a  certain  bell,  one  we  decided  we  must  hear,  and 
later  two  little  chapels  must  be  visited — that,  by  the 
merest  and  happiest  chance,  I  had  heard  spoken  of 
as  practically  unknown  to  travelers,  the  charming 
chanoine  of  the  cathedral  of  Rouen  assuring  me  I 
should  be  rewarded  for  my  search,  when  he  spoke  of 
their  interest. 

VI 

In  true  devout,  pilgrim  fashion,  therefore,  we  had 
bent  our  steps  to  this  apsidal  garden  of  St.-Ouen. 
The  warm  air  was  still  in  its  Sabbath  calm.  And 
then  suddenly  the  silence  was  startled  by  the  chiming 
of  the  bells  of  the  church.  The  vergers  were  ringing 
for  high  mass. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tonal  quality  of 
Jumieges's  great  bell.1  Its  deep,  sonorous  voice  rose 
above  all  other  of  the  bells'  chiming.  Its  sweetness 
and  depth  of  tone  had  a  solemn,  awesome  richness, 
as  though  from  the  tragic  experience  of  its  life  history 
it  brought  the  warning  of  the  passing  away  of  all 
earthly  grandeur. 

One  would  have  liked  to  talk  back,  to  answer: 

1  The  great  bell  of  Jumieges  Abbaye  bad  been  taken  to  Rouen  and 
hung  among  the  bells  of  St.-Ouen. 

339 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

"Life  is  short,  every  life  is  incomplete,  each 
human  effort  can  only  give  half  of  its  true  force,  but 
as  the  minute  insects  that  built  up  the  white  faces  of 
the  chalk  cliffs  lining  the  Seine  must  have  taken  a 
million  of  years  to  make  firm,  by  their  shells,  a  single 
inch,  so  have  great  men's  lives  handed  on  to  us  the 
firm  foundations  of  the  civilizing  powers  we  have 
fought  for.  Jumieges  carried  on  its  civilizing 
power — " 

"You  are  getting  didactic,"  smoothly  remarked 
my  friend.  "Let  us  go  into  the  church.  Where  is 
the  little  chapel  we  were  to  seek?" 

Out  from  the  garden  I  meekly  followed.  We 
passed  into  the  nave's  lofty  interior.  The  burning 
question  arose — could  we  at  this  moment  visit  the 
curious  chapel  of  which  we  were  in  search?  Were 
many  worshipers  assembled  such  a  demand  could 
not  even  be  breathed.  The  great  church  was 
empty.  In  a  distant  side-chapel,  twinkling  tapers 
and  the  murmur  of  a  priest's  voice  announced  a 
low  mass  was  being  said.  Still  we  hesitated.  An 
obliging  sacristan  came  to  our  rescue. 

"Yes,  Mesdames,  I  can  show  you  the  chapel;  so 
few  ask  for  it,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  show  it." 

With  the  professional  air  of  those  whose  lives  are 
spent  in  church  services  of  a  strictly  lay  order,  the 
sacristan  extracted  a  slender  taper  from  one  side- 
pocket  and  a  box  of  matches  from  another. 

We  followed  him  to  a  side-chapel  beyond  the 
choir.  A  crimson  curtain  was  lifted,  and  behold  us 
in  between  thick  walls,  descending  narrow,  steep, 

340 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

stone  steps.  The  quick  transition  from  the  lofty, 
gray  interior  of  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  Gothic 
churches  to  this  survival  of  the  primitive  buildings, 
was  instantaneous.  Down  and  down  we  went, 
breathing  an  air  vaultlike  in  its  humidity.  We  were 
in  sepulchral  darkness;  suddenly  the  twinkling 
taper  was  held  above  our  heads.  We  had  come  to 
a  stop. 

"You  are  in  the  oldest  church  in  Normandy. 
Here  in  this  chapel  Catholicism  was  born." 

This  astounding  announcement  was  made  in  a 
tone  of  voice  that  carried  immediate  conviction. 
Disputatious  argument  might  come  later.  At  the 
moment  the  rude  vaulting,  the  stone  benches,  the 
primitive  altar,  the  two  little  clefts  in  the  walls 
serving  as  sacristies,  were  undeniable  proofs  of  the 
underground  chapel  having  been  built  for  secrecy, 
for  few  worshipers,  and  for  religious  services  of  the 
most  abbreviated  order. 

To  discover  so  primitive  a  relic  under  the  floors  of 
the  finished  perfection  of  St.-Ouen  was  perhaps  the 
really,  the  chief,  the  truly  sensational  impression 
created. 

vn 

The  sweet  garden  scents  of  the  open  square  fol- 
lowed us  to  the  car.  We  rolled  on  to  a  height  above 
the  city.  We  were  in  quest  of  another  discovery. 
On  turning  from  La  Place  Cauchoise  to  the  street 
of  St.-Gervais  we  seemed  to  be  entering  into  country 
sights  and  country  life. 

23  341 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

On  this  St.-Gervais  height  the  air  was  singularly 
pure  and  soft.  Houses  set  about  with  gardens,  in 
which  tall  shrubs  and  trees  threw  shadows  upon 
green  lawns  and  garden  plots — how  far  away  were 
Rouen's  bustling,  teeming  streets!  There  was  a 
wide  expanse  of  cloudlit  blues  above;  and  below, 
wandering  with  rustic  uncertainty,  were  streets 
skipping  downward  with  a  tentative  air. 

The  scene  was  set  in  so  rural  a  frame,  it  was  no 
surprise  to  see  sitting  under  the  trees,  in  the  open 
square  below  the  church,  two  old  gossips,  in  caps. 
A  priest  stepped  down  from  the  church's  side  en- 
trance. He  stopped,  gazed  about  him,  and  then  he 
took  his  seat  beside  the  old  cronies. 

Once  within  the  church,  we  found  high  mass  was 
over.  The  sacristan  came  forward,  and  again  our 
request  found  favor  in  his  eyes. 

Once  again  we  were  startled  to  find  how  cleverly 
the  church  hides  its  secrets.  An  innocent-looking 
panel  was  opened.  A  dark  flight  of  worn  steps  led 
us  downward.  Again  the  same  dead  air  choked  us. 
Once  more  our  stumbling  feet  came  to  a  rest  in  a 
darkness  that  showed  us  nothing  but  a  small,  dim, 
stony  interior. 

The  taper  hovered  over  a  niched  slab.  This  we 
were  told  was  the  tomb  of  St.-Mellon  (311),  he 
who  came  from  England,  in  the  fourth  century, 
and  who  brought  the  worship  of  Christ  and  the 
Virgin  to  Rouen.  St.-Mellon  was  the  first  Bishop 
of  Rouen. 

The  taper  threw  its  uncertain  light  on  another 

342 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

niched  slab.  This  was  the  tomb  of  St.-Mellon's 
successor,  Avitien,  who  died  in  A.D.  325. 

These  dates  seemed  to  be  proved  as  exact  by  the 
rudeness  of  chapel  and  tombs.  There  were  absorb- 
ingly interesting  remains  of  that  remote  century 
work;  the  stones  of  which  the  walls  were  built 
seemed  to  have  been  thrown  into  the  cement, 
scarcely  an  attempt  having  been  made  to  place 
them,  to  give  them  security.  The  capitals  of  the 
rough  pillars  were  hewn,  apparently,  rather  with  an 
ax  than  with  the  chisel.  The  primitive  altar,  the 
sacristy,  the  worn  stone  benches,  must  have  been 
of  the  same  age  as  the  chapel  of  St.-Ouen. 

It  is  certain  that  even  though  these  two  chapels 
may  have  been  somewhat  renovated  during  the 
Middle  Ages,  their  early  fourth-century  creation  can 
be  no  fable.  Paganism  was  still  the  cult  of  the 
country  Caesar  had  conquered.  Beautiful  temples  to 
Venus,  to  Bacchus,  and  to  all  the  pagan  gods 
abounded  throughout  Gaul;  the  lovely  Cyprian 
Queen  of  Love,  of  the  Graces,  was  devoutly  wor- 
shiped two  or  three  centuries  after  the  Romans 
were  gone.  It  is  a  grave  question,  indeed,  whether 
the  worship  of  Venus  has  ever  entirely  ceased  in  this 
land  of  Latinized  Frenchmen. 

Our  amiable  guide,  meanwhile,  was  telling  us  of  a 
reverent  tribute  paid  yearly,  in  this  very  chapel,  to 
the  memory  of  its  first  bishop.  High  mass  is  said 
on  the  anniversary  of  St.-Mellon's  death.  The  dark 
night  of  the  chapel  is  illumined  by  torches  and  by 
hundreds  of  tapers.  The  antique  altar  disappears 

343 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

under  its  garlands  of  flowers  and  laces.  The  priests, 
to  prove  their  devotion  to  their  pious  founder,  bring 
their  vestments  down  from  the  upper  sacristy  and 
don  them  here,  before  the  rude  little  openings  in  the 
wall — the  older  sacristies.  And  in  those  ancient 
niches  the  costly  gold  vessels  used  in  the  service  of 
the  mass  are  placed. 

One  easily  pictures  the  touching  scene.  The 
favored  few  worshipers — for  at  most  the  chapel  can 
barely  hold  fifty  or  sixty  persons — these  devout  wor- 
shipers must  sit  about  on  the  stone  benches,  many 
kneeling.  The  priests  in  their  embroidered  chasubles 
and  in  their  laces;  the  gleaming  gold  vessels,  the 
choir-boys'  scarlets,  the  high  lights  of  the  scene;  and 
then  the  play  of  the  lights  on  the  rude  background, 
now  lighting  up  the  delicate  face  of  a  woman  or  the 
roughened  wall-surface;  and,  falling  on  the  embroid- 
eries of  the  priestly  vestments,  the  glow  of  the 
gleaming  gold,  of  the  brilliant  colors  that  must  make 
a  second  lighting  about  the  altar — one  can  readily 
evoke  the  touching  and  moving  ceremony,  at  once  so 
splendid  and  so  rude! 

The  mental  vision  was  still  dancing  before  the 
eyes  as  I  made  my  way  to  the  open  doors  of  the 
church.  One's  eyes  blinked  at  the  noon  sun's 
shining.  And  the  soft  warm  air  was  good  to  feel  on 
one's  cheeks  and  brow. 

Centuries  ago,  I  suddenly  remembered,  the  same 
soft,  cool  air  was  found  to  be  good,  by  one  of  the 
great  of  earth.  He  had  been  borne  here,  in  a  litter, 
from  a  long  distance.  He  came  here  to  die. 


ROUEN— SEEN  IN  A  DAY 

And  then  the  vision  of  that  slow,  agonizing  death 
and  the  harrowing  story  of  the  Conqueror's  funeral 
came  upon  me  like  a  true  vision.  I  saw  it.  I  felt 
it — standing  there  where  he  had  passed  beyond  the 
gates  of  death — where  none  could  do  him  harm. 

And  this  is  what  I  saw: 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


WILLIAM    THE    CONQUEROR  S    LAST    JOURNEY 


TN  the  golden  month  of  September,  in  the  year  1087, 
•••  there  set  forth,  from  out  the  quays  of  Rouen, 
down  the  Seine,  on  as  lonely  a  journey  as  a  body 
bereft  of  its  soul  has  ever  taken,  all  that  earth  could 
claim  of  William,  Duke  of  Normandy,  Conqueror  and 
King  of  England. 

The  long  barge  on  which  the  coffin  was  placed,  it 
is  recorded,  was  decked  with  a  certain  splendor. 
If  the  old  chroniclers  who  described  these  last  honors 
paid  to  the  greatest  man  of  his  time  drew  on  their 
imagination  for  effective,  decorative  adjuncts,  at 
least  the  picture  they  paint  accords  in  every  particu- 
lar with  the  dramatic  story  of  William's  last,  and 
perhaps  the  most  cruel,  of  his  battles. 

The  Shakespearian  tragedy  of  his  death  followed 
fast  upon  the  accident  that  befell  him  during  the  fray. 

The  French  king,  ever  envious  of  William's  power, 
of  his  rich  Norman  lands,  and  of  the  duke's  genius 
of  organization  which  had  made  Normandy  (Neus- 
tria)  the  most  valuable,  as  it  was  even  then  the  most 
prosperous,  of  all  the  lands  in  France,  was  tempted 

M6 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

to  make  a  cruel  jest  as  the  Conqueror  lay  ill  in  bed 
at  Rouen.  William's  great  fame  had  taken  on  huge 
proportions  during  his  later  years.  Taunting  his 
enemy  and  his  unwieldy  shape,  Philip  of  France 
laughed  loud  as  he  cried : 

"King  William  has  as  long  a  lying-in  as  a  woman 
behind  her  curtains." 

"When  I  get  up,  par  la  splendeur  de  Dieu" — 
William  swore  by  his  favorite  oath — "I  will  go  to 
mass  in  Philip's  land  and  bring  a  rich  offering  for  my 
churching.  I  will  offer  a  thousand  candles  for  my 
fee.  Flaming  brands  shall  they  be,  and  steel  shall 
glitter  over  the  fire  they  make." 

There  had  been  border  wars  between  Philip's  land 
of  Vexin,  of  which  Mantes  was  the  capital,  and 
William's  Normandy.  William  had  wearied  of 
these  unceasing  French  inroads;  in  his  imperious 
way  he  demanded  the  surrender  of  all  Vexin.  Now 
this  insult  of  his  king,  in  answer  to  that  demand, 
hurled  at  the  most  sensitive  point,  save  one,  in  the 
great  man's  make-up — for  mockery  leveled  at  any 
personal  defect  or  at  his  illegitimate  birth  was  the 
point  Jaible  in  William's  character — this  taunt  had 
stung  him  to  the  pitch  of  cruel  anger. 

As  soon  as  he  was  physically  able  William  pro- 
ceeded to  light  those  "candles,"  and  flaming  brands 
indeed  they  were! 

All  along  the  lovely  country  you  now  may  see,  as 
did  William,  riding  at  the  head  of  his  great  army, 
between  Rouen  and  Mantes — orchards  heavy  with 
fruit,  harvests  garnered  or  ripe  for  the  sickle,  and 

347 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

farms  rich  in  flocks  and  cattle — the  whole  set,  now 
as  then,  in  an  emerald  frame  of  plains,  of  low  hills, 
and  of  sunlit  forests.  Through  this  charming  land 
William  and  his  army  rode  on  and  on. 

The  quiet  town  you  now  pass,  on  your  journey 
into  Normandy,  whose  decorative  cathedral  towers 
you  see  planted,  as  it  were,  against  the  wide  skies, 
from  across  the  plains,  seems  to  have  little  or  no 
historical  story  to  tell  the  world.  The  silent  streets, 
the  modern  fagades,  the  town's  provincial  air  of  easy 
leisure,  appear  to  hold  no  secret  of  a  dramatic  past. 

The  very  air  and  atmosphere  of  "Mantes  la 
Jolie"  refuse  to  yield  those  secrets  of  tone,  of  color 
surprises,  that  give  imagination  a  lift.  The  only 
possible  beauty  you  will  find  in  the  commonplace 
little  city  you  must  seek  outside  of  its  brightly 
sunned  but  uninteresting  streets. 

The  town  William  and  his  army  entered,  in  that 
golden  September  month  of  the  year  1087,  was  the 
typical  town  of  the  Middle  Ages:  the  town  of  low, 
thatched  houses,  of  their  rush-laid  floors;  of  their 
glassless  windows;  of  mud  and  refuse-strewn  streets; 
of  here  and  there  a  fine  Norman-arched  church  to 
prove  the  distance,  in  point  of  comfort  and  splendor, 
between  God's  domain  and  man's,  and  of  convents 
and  monasteries  whose  dependencies  filled  half  the 
town. 

Vexin,  as  it  was  then  called,  of  which  Mantes  was 
the  capital,  was  the  natural  frontier  between  France 
and  Normandy.  The  French  king  of  that  far-away 
day  was  as  uneasy,  seated  on  his  throne,  as  have 

348 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

been  some  of  the  rulers  of  kingdoms  in  our  own 
day. 

A  full  third  part  of  the  whole  wealth  of  France  lay 
within  the  boundaries  of  Normandy.  The  fat  plains; 
the  golden  grain-fields;  the  great  orchards  tapestried 
with  the  crimsons,  the  purples,  and  the  yellows  of  the 
fortune-yielding  fruit-trees;  the  promenading  cattle; 
the  droves  of  sheep — here  were  the  earth-yielding 
proofs  of  great  riches.  Shipbuilding,  cotton-spin- 
ning, armories,  and  how  many  other  industries 
attested  the  fecund  vitality  of  this  Normandy's 
pliable  force! 

To  look  on  such  riches,  and  not  to  burn  to  know 
them  to  be  Norman,  in  this  year  of  1087,  and  not 
French,  was  to  endow  a  French  king  with  super- 
human virtues  of  continence. 

Therefore  it  was  that  again,  as  in  so  many  other 
futile  attacks,  the  French  king  came  to  make  war 
on  William  his  vassal,  as  duke  of  over-prosperous 
Normandy,  and  also  his  "dear  brother,"  as  King  of 
England.  Such  courteous  ties  are  easily  forgotten, 
however,  when  human  passions  pull  a  stronger  string. 


ii 

As  William  and  his  army  moved  out  from  Rouen, 
to  meet  his  envious  king,  as  on  and  on  he  went,  the 
Conqueror  made  good  his  ruthless  boast.  Flaming 
hayricks,  burning  forests,  lighted  his  army's  night- 
watches.  Mantes  itself  was  reserved  for  one  of  his 
few  acts  of  wanton  cruelty.  The  town  was  reduced 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

to  ashes;  not  even  the  churches  were  spared,  and 
yet  William  was  a  lover  of  churches. 

Riding  through  the  burning  streets,  "the  heat  of 
the  season,  and  the  great  fire  of  the  city,  to  which 
latter  the  ardor  of  his  vengeance  made  him  go  too 
closely,  in  order  that  his  orders  might  be  the  better 
executed,  (these)  caused  so  sudden  an  alteration  in 
his  health  that,  no  longer  able  to  remain  in  the  air, 
he  turned  to  take  the  road  to  his  headquarters. 
Forcing  his  horse  to  jump  a  ditch,  he  struck  so  vio- 
lently against  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  that  it 
engendered  a  fever."  * 

This  false  step  of  his  steed  seemed  to  his  enemies 
the  just  vengeance  of  an  outraged  Providence.  It 
was,  for  William,  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Wounded  unto  death,  he  was  carried  in  his  litter 
back  across  the  very  country  he  had  so  ruthlessly 
harried.  Both  the  journey  and  his  illness  were  long. 
There  was  tune,  during  the  three  weeks  of  his  suffer- 
ing at  the  Priory  of  St.-Gervais,  close  to  Rouen,  for 
dwelling  on  all  the  complications,  on  all  the  disasters 
so  keen  and  great  a  mind  as  William's  could  not  fail 
to  foresee  would  follow  on  his  losing  his  grasp  of  his 
two  great  possessions — Normandy  and  England. 

What  dark  and  fateful  shapes  peopled  that  death - 
chamber!  His  half-brothers,  sons  of  his  mother's 
by  her  only  rightful  husband,  Comte  d'Herluin  of 
Conteville,  these  great  lords  William  knew  to  be  as 
dangerous  to  any  people  over  whom  they  might  reign 
as  they  had  been  traitorous  to  him.  Odo  was  Bishop 

1  L'Abbe  Provost,  Histoire  de  Guillaume,  p.  507. 

350 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

of  Bayeux,  had  been  Regent  of  England,  and  was 
Count  of  Kent.  Imprisoned  at  the  time  of  William's 
death,  he  was  released  to  return  to  Normandy. 
He  it  was  who  was  to  paint,  for  all  time,  the  mar- 
velous record  of  the  Invasion  of  England,  as  well  as 
the  true  picture  of  the  Normans  of  his  day,  in  the 
famous  Tapestry  of  Bayeux. 

As  for  his  sons,  how  could  any  father  think  of  those 
ungrateful,  grasping,  unnatural  sons  save  as  a  strong 
man  faces  treachery  under  the  gathering  gloom  of  full 
knowledge  of  their  desertion? 

Mathilda,  his  beloved  wife,  had  died  five  years 
previous,  in  1083.  Her  body  lay  in  the  great  choir 
of  her  own  superb  abbey,  1'Abbaye  des  Dames,  at 
Caen,  the  penance  imposed  by  the  Pope  for  the  un- 
sanctioned  marriage  of  one  of  the  few  perfect  unions 
known  in  history. 

Loneliest  of  dying  monarchs,  therefore,  could  even 
the  great  deeds  of  his  double  reign  console  the 
Conqueror?  Could  the  rule  of  peace,  of  orderly 
government,  of  wise  laws  that  had  made  Normandy 
a  model  state  warm  the  heart  of  a  man  as  abandoned, 
as  desolate  as  was  William?  The  wife  of  his  ten- 
derest  as  of  his  later  years,  Mathilda,  lay  in  her 
tomb  at  Caen,  where  one  was  already  being  made  for 
him.  Of  his  three  sons  not  one  was  here,  among  this 
sorrowing  company  of  monks,  of  courtiers,  of 
priests  and  prelates,  to  help  him  die.  There  was 
not  one  of  his  children  to  give  him  the  comforting 
warmth  of  filial  affection. 

Our  acts  come  back,  at  certain  tragic  hours,  to 

351 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

hand  us,  as  though  in  mockery,  the  blighted  fruit  of 
our  own  seeding.  William  was  not  unlike  many 
another  modern  father.  It  had  been  his  policy  to 
keep  his  sons  dependent  on  him.  He  enriched  his 
barons,  had  given  lavishly  to  his  own  half-brothers, 
but  neither  in  England  nor  in  Normandy  were  lands 
or  spoils  dealt  out  to  his  sons.  In  the  coarse  but 
picturesque  language  characteristic  of  this  man  of 
few  words  and  great  deeds,  when  besieged  by  the 
altogether  natural,  if  somewhat  importunate,  de- 
mands of  one  of  his  sons  for  a  larger  share  in  the 
wealth  that  was  being  so  liberally  bestowed  on 
others,  William  answered: 

"It  is  not  my  manner  to  take  off  my  clothes  till  I 
go  to  bed." 

His  sons,  therefore,  at  this  time,  when  even  the 
strongest  and  most  self-reliant  of  men  stand  most  in 
need  of  affection,  of  feeling  that  the  darkness  closing 
in  upon  them  is  lighted  by  the  tender  flame  of  love — 
William's  sons  had  fled.  Their  quarrels  were  even 
now  filling  the  startled  air,  an  air  tremulous  with 
fears  of  unknown  danger. 

All  England,  all  Normandy  knew  the  great  sun  was 
setting.  Already  England  and  Normandy  were  stirred 
to  quivering  anxiety  of  what  was  to  befall,  once  the 
strong  hand  of  the  Conqueror  was  struck  down. 

During  the  long  weeks  of  his  suffering  William 
had  time  for  settling  the  graver  affairs  of  his  kingdom. 
Certain  portions  of  William's  personal  wealth  were 
wisely  divided  among  his  ungrateful  heirs.  The 
crown  of  Normandy  was  given  to  his  eldest  son, 

352 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

Robert.  The  awarding  of  the  legacy  of  England's 
crown  even  William's  master  mind  found  too  great 
a  perplexity.  He  relegated  the  choice  of  his  successor 
as  king  of  England  to  the  man  whom,  above  all 
others,  after  his  beloved  Mathilda  and  the  children 
he  best  loved — to  Lanfranc.  In  this  former  brilliant 
Italian  lawyer;  in  this  founder  of  the  Avranches 
lectures;  in  this  repentant  scholar  who  took  his  vows 
as  monk  of  the  great  Abbaye  of  Bee;  in  this  first 
abbot  of  William's  own  great  church  at  Caen,  of 
St.-Etienne — in  Lanfranc,  the  first  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  William  had  found  that  rarest  of  treas- 
ures in  his  kingdom — a  true  friend  and  wise  coun- 
selor. William  the  Red,  the  Conqueror's  second 
son,  was  already  in  England,  to  persuade  Lanfranc 
to  secure  to  him  England's  crown. 

William  had  not  only  delighted  in  the  building  of 
churches;  he  not  only  had  passed  to  the  clergy  some 
of  the  greatest  benefices  that  were  his  to  give;  he 
not  only  had  endowed  convents  and  monasteries  as 
other  kings  enrich  favorites — he  was  himself  a  true 
son  of  the  Church,  a  lover  of  God  and  of  holy  men. 
Were  not  the  saintly  Anselm,  now  abbot  of  the 
Abbaye  of  Bee,  and  Lanfranc — were  not  these  good, 
wise  men  his  only,  his  sole  intimates?  What  a  light 
such  friendships  cast  on  the  nature  of  the  man  whose 
life  was  passed  in  the  heady  passions  of  battles,  of 
conquests,  of  the  organizing  of  great  kingdoms,  and 
in  the  ruling  of  two  races  as  utterly  at  variance  as 
were  his  own  turbulent  and  arrogant  Normans  and 
the  proud  and  rebellious  Britons! 

353 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

After  having  also  made  liberal  provision  for  the 
poor,  as  he  lay  on  his  couch  at  the  Priory  of  St.- 
Gervais,  William  prepared  himself  for  the  dread 
hour.  Great  men  meet  death  for  the  most  part  with 
a  grand  air.  Csesar,  as  he  fell  at  the  base  of  Pom- 
pey's  statue,  could  remember  to  cover  his  face  with 
his  mantle,  lest  his  murderers  might  see  his  features 
tortured  by  the  death  agony.  The  same  grave 
concern  for  decency,  for  making  the  final  exit 
with  the  grace  of  dignity,  inspires,  I  believe,  all 
the  greater  minds  to  meet  death  with  a  courage 
we  call  Spartan  or  Christian,  according  to  the  era 
of  a  hero's  epoch  or  to  the  character  of  his  philos- 
ophy or  creed. 

The  shadows  were  now  gathering  thick  about  the, 
master  mind  of  Europe.  The  scene  the  old  chroni- 
clers paint  for  us  of  the  Conqueror's  death-bed  is  one 
that  may  conceivably  have  been  arranged  to  impress 
the  popular  mind.  Yet  the  broad  outlines  agree  with 
all  the  more  authentic  estimates  of  William's  charac- 
ter. He  was  surrounded  by  prelates,  by  priests,  and 
by  monks,  we  are  told.  In  the  quiet  and  retirement 
of  the  distant  priory,  Rouen's  busy  roar  of  life  was 
dulled.  Amid  trees  and  verdure  a  quiet  air  helped 
a  soul  to  mount  to  serener  heights. 

One  morning,  at  the  hour  of  prime,  William  awoke, 
to  hear  the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral  at  Rouen 
ringing  its  clangorous  chimes.  As  though  he  had 
never  before  heard  this  music  swinging  in  midair, 
he  asked  what  it  might  mean.  On  being  told  by  his 
attendants  the  bells  were  being  rung  for  matins, 

354 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

William  lifted  his  eyes  and  hands  heavenward  as  he 
said  a  brief  prayer.  He  breathed  again,  and  was 
dead. 

in 

It  is  our  convenient  habit  to  sum  up  certain  tragic 
situations  as  Shakespearian.  But  Shakespeare  him- 
self sought  his  scenes  and  characters  in  records  of 
life  and  history. 

In  this  death  of  William  and  of  all  that  followed 
there  were  sufficient  elements  of  drama  and  of 
tragedy  to  furnish  genius  with  the  mise-en-scene  of 
half  a  dozen  historical  plays. 

The  recital  of  the  panic  that  seized  on  all  the  prel- 
ates and  ecclesiastics  who  had  swarmed  about  the 
Conqueror's  death-bed  as  hungry  sharks  about  a 
victim — the  richer  among  them  mounting  their 
steeds,  those  who  must  walk  hurrying  away  to  look 
after  their  possessions  as  though  menaced  by  an 
advancing  enemy;  the  pillaging  of  the  priory,  that 
had  been  one  of  the  chateaux  of  former  Norman 
dukes,  of  all  valuables,  of  even  linen  and  furniture 
as  well  as  of  all  its  silver  and  ornaments — what  a 
scene  for  a  painter  of  words! 

In  the  chamber  where  he  died  William's  body, 
even  that  poor  debris  of  power  lay,  stripped,  naked, 
and  deserted. 

In  Rouen  itself  and  beyond  the  city  the  panic, 
meanwhile,  had  spread  to  every  inhabitant.  It 
seemed  as  though  all  Normandy  were  possessed  with 
an  access  of  folly.  Many  left  town,  carrying  with 

355 


them  all  portable  valuables.  Others  hid  all  that 
could  be  secreted.  The  fear  of  a  coming  revolution 
was  in  every  one's  mind. 

No  greater  proof  could  be  given  of  the  power 
wielded  by  William,  of  his  firm  control  over  his  Nor- 
man subjects,  and  of  his  rule  of  justice  and  orderly 
government,  than  the  panic  of  fear  and  dismay  in 
which  his  death  had  plunged  his  dukedom. 

A  single  knight,  Herluin  of  Conteville,  kept  control 
of  both  head  and  heart.  Years  ago  William  had 
"righted  his  mother."  That  romance  of  his  father's 
courting  of  Arlette,  the  tanner's  daughter,  by  the 
fountain  at  Falaise,  the  fountain  that  lay  below 
Robert's  great  castle,  was  never  viewed  in  the  light 
of  romance  by  the  proud  and  supersensitive  offspring 
of  that  love  adventure.  One  of  the  first  authorita- 
tive acts  of  William  the  Bastard  had  been  to  give  his 
mother,  Arlette,  a  husband — a  marriage  blessed  by  a 
priest. 

Robert  the  Magnificent — or  the  Devil — both 
sobriquets,  but  the  better  paint  the  large  unruly 
nature  of  the  man — Robert,  father  of  William,  had 
died  in  far  distant  Eastern  lands,  lands  which,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  eleventh  century,  seemed  to 
be  earth's  terminus. 

The  mad  longing  to  reach  Jerusalem  having  been 
satisfied,  the  fate  of  so  many  other  thousands  of 
crusaders  had  met  Robert  on  the  return  journey. 
He  had  died  emitting  a  last  racy  jest  to  be  carried 
down  the  centuries.  "Tell  my  people,"  he  had 
laughed  out  to  some  of  his  subjects  as  he  lay  in  his 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

litter,  who  askea  what  message  they  should  deliver 
to  his  Normans — "tell  my  people  you  saw  me  carried 
to  heaven  by  four  Saracen  heathen." 

Arlette,  therefore,  being,  if  not  a  wedded  wife, 
at  least  free,  could  wed. 

It  was  her  husband,  Herluin,  one  of  the  few 
courtiers  about  the  king,  who  was  to  prove  his  grati- 
tude for  the  double  gift  of  a  fair  and  lovely  wife,  and 
for  all  the  riches  his  great  son-in-law  had  bestowed 
on  him  and  his.  William's  body  might  have  lain 
there  unshrouded — who  knows? — unburied,  such 
were  the  disorders  of  those  wild  days,  had  not 
Herluin  proved  he  had  a  heart. 

"However,  the  body  of  the  king  would  have  re- 
mained without  burial  if  a  simple  nobleman  named 
Herluin,  pushed,"  says  the  Norman  historian,  "by 
his  natural  goodness  and  to  perform  an  act  agreeable 
to  God,  as  well  as  to  save  the  honor  of  the  nation, 
had  not  taken  upon  himself  the  care  of  the  funeral." 
Such  a  record  proves  the  simplicity  of  the  times, 
as  well  as  the  illuminating  fact  that  while  William 
could  bring  law  and  order  out  of  chaos,  could,  by  his 
long  reign  of  justice  and  enterprise,  develop  and 
insure  prosperity,  he  had  not  organized  his  court. 
France  itself  must  indeed  await  the  advent  of 
Frangois  I  for  a  true  court  to  be  formed. 

Herluin  planned  his  great  benefactor's  funeral  on 
a  scale  commensurate  with  kingly  state.  First, 
the  frightened  ecclesiastics  must  be  brought  back 
to  the  priory,  from  Rouen,  to  participate  in  the  last 
offices  of  the  dead.  Both  exhortations  as  well  as 

24  857 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

rich  offerings  were  necessary  to  gather  together 
these  unworthy  sons  of  the  Church. 

A  procession  finally  set  out  from  Rouen  with  the 
Archbishop  of  Rouen,  under  his  dais,  at  their  head. 
This  latter  notability,  having  been  paid  to  remember 
what  should  have  been  his  first  thought  both  as 
man  and  priest,  bethought  him  of  a  means  of  placing 
the  corpse  where  it  might  not  be  a  too  frequent 
reminder  of  benefits  forgot.  The  archbishop  or- 
dained William's  body  should  be  taken  to  Caen,  there 
to  be  entombed  in  his  own  church  of  St.-Etienne. 

The  mortal  part  of  William,  therefore,  was  now 
made  ready  for  its  last  voyage.  Herluin  made  his 
preparations  on  a  scale  suitable  with  the  grandeur  of 
a  reign  that  had  lasted  forty-two  years.  The  barge, 
we  are  told,  was  broad  and  long,  for  William  was 
a  large  man,  and  as  tall  as  had  been  his  viking 
forefathers.  The  casket  was  placed  where  all 
could  see. 

All  Normandy  who  could  crowd  the  banks  of  the 
Seine  lined  the  shores.  If  the  news  of  the  great 
duke's  and  king's  death  could  be  transmitted,  pre- 
sumably by  hill-fires,  to  Sicily  in  a  single  day,1  the 
knowledge  that  his  funeral  rites  were  to  be  as  none 
other  monarchs  had  ever  been  must  have  flown  to 
every  hamlet  and  thatched  cottage,  to  town  and 
castle,  for  wide  miles  behind  the  green  Seine  banks. 

Out  from  the  crowded  Rouen  quays  the  barge 
slipped  into  the  shining  waters.  The  September  sun 
lit  up  a  scene  which  no  man  who  looked  upon  it 

1  Freeman,  History  qf  Normandy. 

358 


WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR 

would  ever  look  upon  the  like  again,  nor  would  his 
children's  children  be  allowed  to  forget  the  sight. 

Under  its  purple-and-crimson  pall  there  lay  the 
broad,  long  coffin.  The  two  crowns  of  Normandy 
and  of  England  are  said  to  have  rested  above  the 
head  that  had  worn  both  so  nobly.  Were  the  scep- 
ters also  beside  him?  Yet  of  what  avail  such  insignia 
of  royalty?  The  mighty  hand  was  nerveless,  that 
hand  before  whose  strength  of  blow  no  man  could 
stand,  whose  bow  no  man  could  bend. 

Thus,  in  royal  state,  did  William  set  forth  on  his 
last  journey. 

Once  beyond  the  close  islands  about  Rouen,  the 
barge  and  its  burden  took  their  slow  way  between 
the  long  Seine  reaches.  Of  those  who  followed  him 
to  his  last  resting-place  history's  page  is  a  blank. 
One  name  and  only  one  shines  bright  as  the  fluttering 
wings  of  a  guardian  angel,  for  surely  Herluin  must 
have  been  beside  his  sacred  charge. 

The  sound  of  trumpets,  sanctifying  the  dirge — the 
hosts  of  following  courtiers,  prelates,  sons — where 
were  they?  William  on  his  last  voyage  was  as 
lonely  as  he  had  been  in  his  life.  His  true  escort 
were  his  sorrowing  people  who  knew  now,  had  they 
never  hitherto  reckoned  up  their  debts  to  him  who 
was  floating  silently,  motionless,  and  still  forever, 
down  the  great  river,  before  their  straining  eyes,  to 
the  open  grave  at  Caen — they  knew  now  the  friend 
and  ruler  they  had  lost. 

The  activity  of  William's  genius,  the  fertility  of 
power  in  him,  the  very  wildness  that  had  been  trans- 

359 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

milled  lo  him  by  his  viking  anceslors — being  a  wild- 
ness  his  grave  character  had  governed  lo  help  him 
surmounl  all  bul  insurmounlable  obslacles — all 
Ihese  grealer  manifeslalions  of  Ihe  forces  of  William's 
characler  had  probably  made  men  fear  him,  dread 
him,  envy  him  more  lhan  ihey  had  loved  him. 
History,  as  have  Normandy  and  England,  has  done 
him  juslice.  He  whose  senlimenls  of  juslice,  of 
humanily,  were  far  beyond  his  age  and  lime,  who, 
harsh,  terrible  as  he  could  show  himself  lo  Ihose  who 
belrayed  him  or  who  had  wronged  him,  "became 
anolher  man,  was  gracious  and  easy  of  speech  "  wilh 
his  Iwo  beloved  "holy  men" — wilh  Anselm  and 
Lanfranc. 

If  Ihe  spiril  which  is  said  by  certain  occullisls  lo 
hover  over  Ihe  body  unlil  il  be  laid  al  resl  flullered 
above  Ihe  greal  Norman  who  was  passing,  as  il  were, 
in  review  Ihe  siles  and  lands  he  had  made  literally 
lo  blossom  like  Ihe  rose,  surely  lhal  disembodied 
spiril  musl  have  had  Ihe  clearer  vision  vouchsafed 
Ihe  soul  when  il  lakes  ils  firsl  immorlal  flighl. 
Above  Ihe  lisping  river,  louder  lhan  Ihe  prayers  and 
chanted  hymns  of  Ihe  people,  Ihe  hovering  spiril 
musl  have  whispered,  "I  may  have  sinned,  bul  I 
have  bellered,  I  have  nol  wronged,  Ihe  world." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ON   THE  ROAD   TO  AMIENS 


were  looking  down  on  a  part  of  the  Nor- 
mandy  world  William  the  Conqueror  "had 
bettered."  It  was  such  a  prospect  as  might  have 
moved  even  a  small-souled  monarch  to  thrill  with 
a  sense  of  possessorship,  and  to  resolve  to  rule  it 
with  wisdom,  and  to  beautify  it  with  loving  care. 

Our  road  to  Amiens  and  to  the  battlefields  led 
us  up  the  steep  hills  to  the  north  of  Rouen. 

The  vast  outlook  over  the  city,  over  the  towering 
hills,  over  the  serpentining  Seine,  its  islands  and 
the  distant  fields,  presented  another  of  those  sur- 
prises France  holds  as  one  of  the  chief  secrets  of 
her  compelling,  mysterious  charm. 

This  France  of  many  faces  wore  here  as  changed 
an  aspect  as  though  a  frontier  had  been  passed. 
Breadth,  grandeur,  contrasting  shapes  of  hills,  a 
wondrous  city  set  like  a  jewel  in  among  her  forested 
mountains — where  match  the  splendor  of  this  Nor- 
man prospect?  Florence,  from  the  heights  of  Fiesole, 
has  certain  features  in  common  with  this,  our  last 
vision  of  the  city  of  churches  and  its  encompassing 

361 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

hills.  But  this  northern  earth  has  more  rugged, 
irruptive  outlines,  as  it  climbs  skyward;  the  con- 
trasting greens  are  deeper,  and  the  ever-flashing 
sparklets  of  silvery  lights  one  misses  in  the  Florentine 
i  ensemble. 

There  was  one  last,  lingering  look  over  the  city, 
swimming  as  in  a  tinted  lake  in  the  early  summer- 
morning  mist;  the  sun-rays  were  gilding  the  worn 
gray  towers  and  the  great  roof  of  the  monster 
cathedral;  its  central  spire  pierced  the  blue  like 
an  arrow  flashed  skyward. 

Earth  took  up  the  poem  man  had  written  in  carven 
stone  to  lift  heavenward  its  own  beauties.  The  sky 
was  fretted  by  the  wavering,  undulating  lines  of  the 
blues,  greens,  or  pale  yellows  of  the  surrounding  hills. 

It  was  the  Seine,  however,  which  eyes  and  thoughts 
followed  with  even  more  poignant  regret  than  the 
Pilgrim's  Hill  of  Bon-Secours,  just  opposite,  or  the 
forests,  or  the  wakening  city. 

The  river  had  yielded  up  its  secret;  we  had  learned 
its  story;  and  remembrance  flew  far  afield  as  we 
realized  its  meaning  to  us,  to  France,  and  to  the 
world. 

Even  as  the  river  was  lighted  by  sudden  sun- 
bursts, its  waters  sparkling  with  flashes  of  prismatic 
light,  or  was  clouded  to  dim  grays  by  a  passing  cloud, 
so  did  the  Seine's  historic  past,  its  two  thousand 
years  of  troubled  life,  seem  to  be  imaged  for  us  on 
the  face  of  its  waters. 

We  were  leaving  this  prosperous,  untouched 
France  behind.  We  were  to  be  within  a  few  short 

362 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

hours  in  the  country  German  barbarism  had  wrecked, 
had  seemingly  ruined  beyond  repair. 

And  that  sparkling  river  seemed  to  send  us  a 
message.  It  was  as  though  the  voice  of  France  itself 
spoke — through  this,  her  liquid  voice: 

"Look  upon  all  I  have  been,  all  I  have  achieved. 
See  what  a  magnificent  page  I  have  written,  even 
here  on  the  shores  of  my  great  river.  Remember  all 
I  have  endured,  suffered,  conquered,  and  outlived. 
Neither  savage  invasions,  nor  foreign  conquests,  nor 
battles,  nor  sieges,  nor  even  wars  of  inimical  religions 
could  subdue  nor  could  they  destroy  my  people. 

"How  many  times,  in  these  two  thousand  years 
of  life,  have  I  risen,  again  and  again,  to  prove  the 
vitality  of  my  race! 

"The  spirit  that  survived  the  Roman  conquest, 
that  subdued  the  piratical  Normans  and  made  them 
great  and  French;  the  heroism  that  swept  on  from 
the  Crusades  to  the  fallen  heroes  of  Agincourt  and 
Crecy  to  inflame  my  soldiers  to  endure  a  Hundred 
Years'  War,  and  that  burst  with  fullest  glory  in 
the  two  battles  of  the  Marne — this  is  the  spirit  that 
is  France.  It  is  the  unquenchable  flame  that  lights 
the  soul  of  Frenchmen. 

"Even  as  I,  the  Seine,  carry  along  to  the  seas  the 
riches  of  art,  of  the  architectural  triumphs  that 
star  my  shores,  from  the  grandeur  at  Paris  that 
is  Notre-Dame  to  the  chiseled  laces  of  St.-Maclou 
and  the  Caudebec  or  Harfleur's  later  Gothic;  as  I 
show  plowed  fields,  rich  orchards,  and  chateaux  set 
in  their  midst,  that  have  outlived  wars  and  sieges, 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

so  you  will  see  France  sending  forth  again  to  the 
world  her  treasured  cargoes  of  new  thought,  of  fresh 
endeavor,  scattering  that  generous  seed  of  her 
genius  which  fertilizes  and  recreates. 

"Therefore  help  me  to  long  life,  for  I  am  one  of  the 
lantern-bearers  of  the  world.'* 

It  was  such  voices  I  heard,  ringing  in  my  ears, 
a  soft,  sibilant  murmur,  as  the  city  faded  into  her 
mists  and  as  the  hills  melted  into  vapor. 

Once  out  on  the  smooth,  winding  road  leading  to 
Amiens,  another  world  and  a  different  sky  announced 
the  north.  Pines,  spruce-trees,  and  larches  spread 
their  sharp  needles  or  drooped  their  pendent  boughs. 
The  fields  wore  deeper  tones;  the  farms  were  built 
of  brick,  cement,  or  stone.  A  thatched  roof  became 
as  novel  a  sight  as  would  have  been  the  softer  colors 
of  the  Normandy  landscape;  these  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  ruddier  planes  of  contrasting  hues. 

The  skies,  as  we  were  swept  on  and  on,  recalled  the 
skies  of  Hobbema  or  of  Coypel.  Thick,  compact 
mounds  of  snowy  clouds  moved  like  battalions 
across  the  colder  blues,  blues  that  were  at  once 
deeper  in  tone,  more  solid  than  the  Norman  vault. 

There  seemed  a  greater  space  between  farmlands, 
with  villages  more  tightly  grouped.  The  Seine 
orchards  had  given  place  to  great  stretches  of  tilled 
fields;  the  golden  grain  in  some  of  these  was  already 
garnered;  in  others,  the  early  September  golden 
light  was  tinting  the  gilded  spears  of  wheat  to  shine 
like  a  burnished  diadem,  its  jewels  set  in  spirals. 

Nearing  the  war  zone,  one's  eyes  were  stretched 

364 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

to  see  the  first  trench,  the  earliest  sign  of  the  great 
conflict.  But  green  or  pale-gold  fields  succeeded 
groups  of  thickly  set  trees,  of  farms  closer  and 
closer  in  touch,  and  all  that  the  nobly  modeled  land- 
scape spelled  for  our  eager,  curious  eyes  was  but 
striving  industry  and  the  calm  of  settled  peace. 


ii 

Suddenly,  we  were  sweeping  along  a  wide  and 
dusty  thoroughfare.  A  group  of  shattered  houses, 
houses  with  walls  mostly  in  their  cellars,  houses  with 
roofs  sagging  helplessly  into  what  once  were  bed- 
rooms, a  salon,  or  a  boudoir,  houses  that  had  the 
dissolute  air  of  having  gone  to  pieces  and  making 
no  sort  of  effort  to  regain  stability — since  wrecks 
they  were  and  wrecks  they  must  remain!  Yes,  this 
was  the  war  zone  in  very  truth! 

We  were  in  Amiens. 

There  could  be  no  misreading  the  staring  signs. 
There  were  more  and  more  ruined  dwellings.  The 
side-streets  were  still  cluttered  with  debris,  with 
fallen  masonry,  with  split  bricks,  and  with  masses 
of  cement  turned  sallow  by  rain  and  weather. 

On  the  walls  of  the  city,  as  we  made  further  prog- 
ress, as  on  a  tragic  page,  there  were  still  written,  in 
blazing  letters,  the  records  of  Amiens's  historic  agony. 

"Abri  pour  50 — Abri  pour  150 — Abri  pour  30." 
("Shelter  for  50— shelter  for  150— shelter  for  30.") 
These  words,  printed  or  written  in  large  letters,  on 
bits  of  coarse  paper,  pasted  on  a  door-jamb  or  on  a 

365 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

house  wall — here  were  the  grim  reminders  of  Amiens's 
sufferings  and  of  the  courageous  stand  taken  by 
many  of  her  citizens  when  the  city  was  under 
the  fire  of  the  German  guns. 

When  that  swift  onrush — swift  as  breaking  dawn, 
destructive  as  some  elemental,  cataclysmic  force — 
when  the  German  army  swept  across  the  open  coun- 
try of  Champagne  and  Picardy,  on  March  21,  1918, 
and  von  Hutier's  army  came  to  a  halt  but  a  few 
kilometers  from  Amiens,  the  lovely  city  became  the 
favorite  target  for  the  play  of  the  enemy  fire. 

Amiens,  thereafter,  for  long  weeks,  was  bom- 
barded night  and  day.  When  the  guns  were  not 
directing  their  attacks  on  houses  or  churches  or 
civic  buildings,  German  avions  swooped  and  swirled 
up  among  the  star-dusted  skies.  Aviators  sent  their 
bombs  and  incendiary  torpedoes  to  flash  their  de- 
structive fires  on  defenseless  dwellings  and  on  archi- 
tectural masterpieces  that  were  the  pride  not  alone 
of  Amiens  itself,  not  alone  of  France,  but  of  every 
living  man  born  of  woman,  since  in  such  achieve- 
ments man  had  proved  to  what  a  height  human 
genius  could  soar. 

Amiens  took  the  tragedy  of  her  punishment  for 
being  a  coveted  center,  as  Paris,  her  co-sufferer, 
was  taking  hers.  At  first,  Picardy's  former  capital's 
courageous  citizens  resisted,  set  their  teeth,  and 
sent  their  women  and  children  to  the  cellars,  to 
which,  in  time,  all  must  go. 

Even  for  the  bravest  the  incessant  bombing  be- 
came, for  many,  too  great  a  strain. 

366 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

Day  after  day,  thereafter,  was  formed  that  other, 
the  most  pathetic  of  all  the  armies — the  army  of  the 
refugees.  Out  from  burning  houses,  from  wretched 
homes,  from  homes  that  were  still  intact — but  for 
how  long? — old  men,  women,  and  children  took  the 
loneliest,  the  longest  of  all  roads — the  one  that  led 
to  exile. 

Weary  and  hungered,  bereft  of  all  hope  were  those 
who,  after  endless  days  and  nights,  in  crowded 
trains,  in  cold  and  cheerless  stations,  finally  reached 
Rouen  or  Paris  or  lower  Normandy. 

Even  should  a  Frenchman  voluntarily  exile  him- 
self, even  such  a  one  can  at  best  but  stifle  the  break- 
ing sob  as  he  looks  his  last  on  "  La  douce  France" 

For  those  involuntarily  ex-patriots  who,  at  a  few 
short  hours',  in  many  cases  at  even  a  few  minutes', 
notice,  must  leave  behind  every  dear  and  cherished 
household  good  and  god — who,  as  they  fly,  have 
seen  their  home  in  flames,  their  dear  ones,  perhaps, 
either  maimed  or  killed — for  such  as  these,  what 
heart-tearing  anguish  must  rend  the  soul,  making  the 
mind  a  very  tabernacle  of  agonized  remembrance. 

A  certain  chorus — the  chorus  of  the  disconsolate 
— rose  up  from  many  of  the  wayside  gares,  from 
Rouen  stations,  and  others.  Those  of  us  who  heard 
that  mounting  wail  can  liken  it  only  to  the  dread 
voices  of  anguish  Dante  heard  when  he  listened  to 
the  cries  of  the  damned  in  hell. 

For  these  refugees,  in  this,  their  prolonged  chorus 
of  sobbing,  were  burying  their  dead.  All  those  years 
of  toil,  of  hard,  silent,  patient  labor,  of  the  laying 


of  one  sou  on  another,  had  meant  as  the  promised 
recompense  for  later  years  of  ease  and  comfort,  all 
this  garnered  spoil  of  the  long  years  that  had  been 
stored  in  the  humble,  but  cozy  Amiens  home,  was 
but  debris  now.  These  trophies  of  the  hard-won 
success  of  the  poorer  ones,  as  were  the  richer  goods 
and  chattels  and  the  costless  souvenirs  of  the 
wealthier  expatriates,  were  now  all  one  with  splin- 
tered bricks  and  pulverized  mortar. 

As  we  swept  past  those  wretched  Amiens  houses 
the  echo  of  that  chorus  of  the  disconsolate  rang  in 
my  ears;  the  picture  was  again  set  before  eyes  that 
were  blurred  with  a  mist — the  picture  of  the  bowed 
forms,  of  the  bent  faces,  down  whose  shrunken  cheeks 
tears  were  falling  like  rain,  as  the  choking  sobs 
gathered  in  volume  till  the  very  air  vibrated  with  the 
rhythmic  beat  of  that  unbearable  sorrow. 


HI 

There  came  the  crashing  music  of  a  military  band; 
drums  were  beating  their  loudest;  there  was  the 
metallic  clashing  of  cymbals,  the  tenor  notes  of 
sonorous  flutes,  and  soaring  above  the  tumult  of 
sound  one  heard  the  brassy  notes  of  loud-voiced 
trumpets. 

An  English  regiment,  headed  by  the  gorgeously 
uniformed  bandmaster,  who  was  executing  his  acro- 
batic fantastic  tricks  with  his  drumstick,  was  march- 
ing to  the  Amiens  station,  homeward  bound. 

The  blaze  of  this  music  filled  the  street.     We 

368 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

were  to  hear  its  feebler  echo  in  the  hotel  garden 
where  English  officers  were  lolling  in  wicker  chairs. 
A  tall  Pole,  with  his  orderly,  whose  eyes  were  fol- 
lowing every  motion  of  his  superior  officer  with  the 
look  of  consecrated  devotion  that  has  died  in  the 
eyes  of  the  serving  class;  two  Serbs,  in  their  dark 
grays;  American  Red  Cross  officers, some  with  strings 
of  medals  attesting  their  work  in  foreign  missions; 
and  half  a  dozen  ladies  with  their  daughters  and 
children,  filled  the  seats  grouped  about  the  tea-tables. 

Above  the  clink  of  spoons  and  the  more  delicate 
clash  of  the  teacups  one  heard  that  curious  medley, 
that  mingling  of  many  tongues  grown  as  familiar 
in  all  parts  of  the  world  as  once  foreigners  were  con- 
sidered to  be  true  curiosities. 

Amiens,  nearly  a  year  after  the  armistice,  was  still 
the  crowded  city  of  congested  traffic.  The  streets 
were  full  of  dusty  carts  and  mud-stained  camions; 
the  sidewalks  were  crowded  with  soldiers,  with  Y. 
M.  C.  A.  men  and  women,  with  the  heavier  Dutch 
or  Flemish  faces,  and  with  here  and  there  a  bearded 
Russian,  in  his  blouse.  Also  here  and  there  a 
French  officer  or  a  poilu  maneuvered  through  the 
crowded  thoroughfare  to  remind  one  Amiens  was  still 
a  French  city,  though  thus  invaded  by  this  flood  of 
foreign  allies. 

IV 

The  Amiens  I  had  embalmed  as  among  the  treas- 
ured cities  of  unforgetable,  of  delectable,  memories 
was  the  Amiens  of  pre-war  days. 

369 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

The  Amiens  of  that  time  was  the  city  of  an  inef- 
fable charm,  aureoled  in  beauty  and  romance.  It 
was  the  city  of  the  great  cathedral  and  of  Puvis  de 
Chavannes. 

This  Amiens  was  a  city  of  calm  aspect,  of  quiet 
streets,  and  of  a  parochial  air  that  was  at  once  re- 
plete with  dignity  and  was  possessed  of  a  certain  air 
of  aristocratic  reserve. 

One's  feet  led  one  as  instinctively  to  the  cathedral 
as  to  a  shrine — for  shrine  it  was  and  is  such  doubly 
now,  since,  with  Kheims  gone,  the  mutilated  victim 
of  German  barbarism,  the  glory  of  Gothic  art  in 
France  centers  in  Chartres  and  Amiens. 

You  will  go  to  your  guide-books,  or  to  more 
elaborate  and  learned  treatises  on  the  glory  that  still 
is  the  glory  of  Amiens  cathedral  to  spell  out  the 
history,  and,  if  possible,  to  evoke  the  spiritual  sig- 
nificance of  as  wondrous  a  human  achievement  as 
is  this  triumph  of  architectural  beauty.  You  will 
be  caught  in  a  maze  of  wonder  at  the  elaborate 
variety  of  the  traceries,  at  the  mingled  strength  and 
yet  alluring  delicacy  of  all  lines  in  the  columns, 
in  the  fine  triforium,  and  in  the  soaring  height  of 
the  great  nave,  the  latter  surpassed  only  by  that 
of  the  Beauvais  cathedral.  You  will  wander  in 
delighted  rapture  from  the  famous  choir-stalls,  with 
their  surpassingly  beautiful  carven  figures,  to  the 
finely  wrought  iron  altar-screens,  and  again  and  yet 
again  you  will  wish  to  study  the  treasures  of  sculpture 
in  side-chapels  and  low  doors. 

In  the  three  superb  recessed  porches  whose  crowd- 

370 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

ed  figures  of  prophets,  of  saints,  of  wise  and  foolish 
virgins,  were  once  gilded,  or  were  richly  painted, 
between  the  great  porches,  "Le  Beau  Dieu  d' Amiens" 
looks  down  on  the  faces  lifted  beneath  him  with  that 
detached  spirituality  of  aspect  too  rarely  divined 
by  the  interpretating  human  portraitist. 

There  will  be  hours,  as  there  should  be  days,  de- 
voted to  close  study  of  all  the  infinite  variety  of 
design,  to  the  scientific  balance  in  matters  of  pro- 
portion and  structural  stability,  and  to  the  never- 
ending  surprises  yielded  by  the  harmony  of  every 
related  part  in  this  great  edifice. 

There  will  be  other  moments  when  colors,  tones, 
and  softened  lights  will  lure  one  to  sit  on  and  on. 
The  "Wheel  of  Fortune,"  the  great  rose- window 
above  the  door  of  the  south  transept,  will  flood  the 
gray  interior  with  its  prismatic  hues.  The  flash  and 
sparkle  of  reds,  yellows,  greens,  and  blues  will  touch 
here  a  gilded  saint,  there  a  richly  robed  virgin,  whose 
painted  face  may  seem  endowed  with  a  semblance 
of  life;  and  if  the  deep  organ  tones  should  flood  the 
aisles,  and  the  choir-boys'  voices  soar  in  crystalline 
purity  to  break  in  melodic  waves  against  the  lofty 
vaultings  of  the  nave,  then  perhaps  some  dim  per- 
ception, in  such  a  moment  of  sensuous  ecstasy, 
since  ecstasy  makes  for  vision,  of  the  true  signifi- 
cance of  such  a  cathedral  as  Amiens  may  break 
through  the  dimmed  imagination  of  our  agnostic- 
tainted  twentieth-century  souls. 

We  have  lost  the  power  to  produce  such  beauty. 
The  faith  that  inspired  such  masterpieces  as  these 

371 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

triumphs  of  Gothic  architecture  is  as  dead  as  are 
most  of  the  lifeless  gray  interiors  of  churches  and 
cathedrals  bereft  of  their  transfiguring  stained  glass, 
of  the  rich  gilding,  of  the  painted  marbles,  of  the 
multitudes  of  statues  resplendent  in  jeweled  robes 
and  sparkling  diadems,  and  of  altars  once  as  in- 
crusted  with  precious  stones  as  a  king's  diadem. 

We  call  the  period  that  produced  such  splendor 
the  "Middle  Ages";  they  were  resplendent  with  the 
shining  of  a  light  that  now,  in  our  mechanical,  in- 
dustrial age,  is  a  light  that  never  shines  on  land  or 
sea.  We  live,  at  times,  by  the  flashing  beams  of 
another  light;  but  the  medieval  spirituality  that 
blossomed  into  beauty,  into  such  objective,  con- 
crete expressions  that  proved  the  soul  of  a  period — 
this  inspirational  incentive  we  have  lost,  perhaps, 
forever. 


Of  the  harm  done  to  the  cathedral  by  incendiary 
bombs,  there  was  abundant  proof  in  these  September 
days  of  1919.  Altars  had  been  stripped,  leaving 
bare  the  solid  framework  of  brick  or  marble  sup- 
ports. Crippled  chairs  were  still  cluttered  together; 
there  were  indistinguishable  heaps  of  broken  backs, 
dislocated  legs,  and  crushed  seats. 

Saints  and  statues  of  the  Virgin  were  in  strange 
surroundings;  planted  in  the  midst  of  sand-bags 
and  gilt  cornices  or  bits  of  sculpture,  they  had  the 
distressed  air  of  having  lost  their  way,  of  being 
abandoned  by  man  and  Heaven.  The  costly  tapes- 

372 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

tries,  the  pictures  ornamenting  side-chapels,  the 
precious  stained-glass  windows,  the  more  famous 
statues,  had  long  since  been  taken  away,  stored  in 
places  insuring  protection  from  bomb  destructive- 
ness  or  German  fury  of  pillage.  The  absence  of  all 
these  decorative  glories  gave  a  tragic  look  of  de- 
sertion, of  abandonment,  to  the  great  interior. 

And  yet  the  noble  edifice  still  held  within  its 
massive  frame  the  spirit  of  France.  "A  thousand 
memories  of  English  history  are  bound  up  with 
those  of  France,"  wrote  Mr.  Gibbs,  in  his  admirable 
account  of  Amiens,  in  the  days  when  the  city's  fate 
hung  in  the  balance.  "Beneath  these  very  arches 
Edward  III  strode  with  his  crown  on  his  head,  with 
his  sword  at  his  side,  his  gilded  spurs  on  his  heel, 
and,  claiming  the  kingdom  of  France,  began  the 
Hundred  Years'  War.  Henry  V  leaned  against  one 
of  those  very  pillars  as  he  whispered  to  his  queen, 
'Dame,  Katherine!'" 

Apart  from  its  historic  cathedral,  Amiens  has  had 
its  epoch-making  records  of  historic  interest.  Caesar, 
who  captured  everything  but  the  gift  of  long  life, 
conquered  what  two  thousand  years  ago  was  known 
as  the  town  of  the  Ambiani.  These  were  fluctuating 
periods  when  Amiens  was  owned  by  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  only  to  be  returned  to  France  by  Louis 
XI;  and  later,  the  Spaniards  came  to  find  their 
prize  wrenched  from  them  by  the  gallant  Frenchman 
who,  once  king  of  France  as  Henri  IV,  must  have  all 
France  for  Frenchmen.  The  famous  Peace  of 
Amiens,  concluded  in  1802  between  France,  Great 

25  373 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Britain,  Spain,  and  Holland,  was  a  peace  as  long  as 
Napoleon  was  at  war. 

The  Germans  once  were  able  to  enter  tlie  city, 
in  November,  1870,  after  their  first  battle  of  Amiens, 
preceding  by  fifty  years  the  second  battle  of  Amiens, 
which  was  to  prove  the  beginning  of  their  fall  as 
the  greatest  military  power  ever  known. 


VI 

The  true  romance  of  Amiens  I  found  to  be  the 
story  of  the  remarkable  relations  that  existed,  for 
a  long  period  of  years,  between  Amiens  and  Puvis 
de  Chavannes.  It  is  such  a  page  as  one  reads  in  the 
lives  of  the  Renaissance  painters  and  artists,  when 
genius  found  itself  linked  with  wealth  and  magnifi- 
cence, in  those  days  when  great  princes  glorified 
themselves  in  their  glorifying  art,  and,  incidentally, 
unknowingly,  assured  themselves  an  immortality 
their  own  deeds  would,  perhaps,  never  have  won 
them. 

In  Amiens,  the  princes  who  first  discerned  in  Puvis 
de  Chavannes  the  genius  that  was  to  add  a  new  and 
glorious  star  to  the  constellation  of  French  art  were 
princes  of  industry. 

Certain  of  the  great  merchants  of  Amiens  were  the 
first  among  connoisseurs  to  recognize  the  elements  of 
greatness  in  the  painter's  work.  They  bought  for 
the  Amiens  museum  his  "Work"  and  "Repose." 

Up  to  this  moment  Puvis  de  Chavannes  had 
we  :ked  practically  in  secret,  unappreciated,  his  work 

374 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

almost  unknown.  In  his  earlier  days  he  had  followed 
the  great  army  of  his  predecessors  along  the  "broad 
highway  of  the  Renaissance";  he  had  "passed 
through"  Coutures's  atelier.  Then,  not  finding  in 
these  directions  the  path  that  suited  his  creative 
powers,  he  turned  to  tread  the  lonely  path  of  original 
discovery. 

For  years  Puvis  suffered  the  slings  and  arrows  of 
that  outrageous  fortune  hostile  and  jealous  criticism 
metes  out  to  all  daring  and  original  creators.  His 
work  was  laughed  at,  held  up  to  contemptuous 
ridicule,  disowned  as  having  the  right  to  call  itself 
a  branch  of  French  art. 

Silently,  steadfastly,  Puvis  held  to  the  rock  of  his 
conviction,  to  truth  as  he  saw  it  and  felt  it,  and  to 
the  intuitive  sense  and  enlightened  knowledge  that 
inspired  him  to  treat  mural  painting  as  only  Giotto 
had  conceived  it. 

After  these  years  of  struggle  and  obscurity  to 
find  in  the  comprehending  merchants  of  Amiens  gen- 
erous patrons,  this  intelligent  recognition  so  elated 
Puvis  that  the  painter,  in  his  own  large-hearted  way, 
insisted  on  giving  two  of  his  already  completed 
works  to  the  museum. 

This  fortunate  purchase  of  the  first  two  paintings 
sold  to  the  Amiens  museum  had  two  far-reaching 
results:  its  effect  on  decorative  art  not  alone  on 
France,  but  on  the  future  of  all  mural  work,  since 
Puvis's  creations  were  to  develop  an  entirely  new 
school  of  mural  painting  adapted  to  architecture 
was,  of  course,  the  greater,  the  incalculably  endur- 

375 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

able  result;  but  on  the  life  and  methods  of  work  of 
the  painter  himself  the  sale  of  his  pictures  had  a 
most  lasting  influence. 

Amiens  adopted  Puvis  as  its  most  cherished  son. 
The  city  took  the  painter  to  its  heart,  showering 
upon  him  its  love,  admiration,  and  tender  apprecia- 
tion. Other  great  works  were  ordered,  and  Puvis 
was  given  time,  leisure,  and  every  facility  to  produce 
his  masterpieces. 

Puvis  responded  to  this  touching  proof  of  a  great 
city's  affection  by  making  it  his  home  for  seventeen 
years.  As  fame  and  fortune  came  following  fast, 
the  great  painter  remained  true  to  those  who  first 
had  proved  worthy  of  his  gratitude.  Away  from 
Paris,  its  distractions  and  interruptions,  in  his  quiet 
Amiens  house  and  in  his  great  studio,  the  painter 
could  develop  his  poetic  designs,  he  could  invite  his 
genius  to  reveal  her  secrets  in  the  calm  of  undis- 
turbed inspiration. 

In  the  Amiens  museum  there  are  walls  covered 
with  some  of  the  greatest  of  the  paintings  of  the 
master.  I  hold  it  indeed  as  a  proof  of  those  who 
"know"  Puvis  that  they  have  also  known  the 
painter's  work  at  Amiens.  If,  as  Puvis  is  reputed  to 
have  said  of  the  mural  decorations  in  the  Pantheon 
at  Paris,  that  he  wished  them  to  be  " Mon  Testa- 
ment" his  Amiens  pictures  should  be  considered 
as  another  "legacy"  to  France. 

In  the  museum  itself  the  painter  was  given,  as  it 
were,  a  free  hand.  Much  of  the  taste  displayed  in 
the  manner  of  arranging  of  the  many  works  of  art, 

37G 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  AMIENS 

the  very  hangings  of  draperies  at  the  doors,  prove 
the  decorative  talent  of  those  who  beautify  all  they 
touch. 

In  this  Amiens  museum,  Puvis  de  Chavannes 
seems  to  have  left  a  faint  reflection  of  the  smile — 
of  that  kindly,  comprehending  smile,  that  faded  only 
when  his  wife,  the  Princess  Cantacuzene,  died. 

With  her  death,  the  lover  and  husband  felt  the 
light  gone  out  of  life.  A  few  months  later,  "Leave 
me,"  the  painter  whispered  to  those  about  him. 
He  must  meet  the  great  silence  as,  in  the  early  years, 
he  had  lived  it — alone. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON  THE  ROAD   TO   THE   BATTLEFIELDS 


TF,  in  that  September  of  1919,  nearly  a  year  after 
•*•  the  armistice,  we  entered  Amiens  to  find  the  city 
repeopled,  its  streets  thronged  with  men,  its  shops 
gay  with  merchandise,  yet  there  were  its  wrecked 
houses,  its  mutilated  churches,  and  the  great  roof 
of  the  cathedral  open  to  the  sky — the  opening  made 
by  descending  bombs,  to  prove  the  long  martyr- 
dom of  Picardy's  former  capital. 

The  battle  of  Amiens  is  now  a  part  of  the  history 
of  the  great  war.  But  already,  so  swift  is  the  finger 
of  time  to  obliterate  the  writing  on  the  scroll  of 
memory,  many  of  the  main  outlines  of  the  great 
struggle  are  dimmed,  have  become  indistinct,  and 
are  merged  in  the  ensemble  of  the  tremendous  con- 
flict that  lasted  nearly  five  years. 

The  chief,  indeed  the  imperative,  reason  for  be- 
ginning one's  tour  of  the  battlefields  at  Amiens  and 
its  adjacent  towns — or  what  is  left  of  them — lies  in 
the  pregnant  fact  that  at  Hamel,  at  Villers-Bre- 
tonneux  close  to  the  city,  some  of  our  own  American 
troops  had  there  their  first  baptism  of  fire;  and  that 

378 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

their  superb  fighting  qualities  in  these  battles  were 
first  demonstrated  not  only  to  their  amazed  and 
admiring  allies,  but  as  well  to  the  incredulous  and 
contemptuous  Germans. 

The  road  from  Amiens  to  Villers-Bretonneux  is 
one  long  record  of  the  bitter  battles  fought  for  the 
possession  of  Amiens  by  the  German  armies,  and  of 
the  Spartan  courage  of  the  Allied  forces  in  defending 
the  city. 

No  sooner  is  one  out  of  Amiens  than  the  tragic 
signs  confront  us  with  what  modern  warfare  can 
write  on  a  lovely  landscape,  utterly  to  change  and 
disfigure  its  beauty  and  productiveness.  One  seems 
to  have  been  plunged  into  the  very  heart  of  the  con- 
flict. Tanks  with  broken  bodies  half  buried  in  mud; 
miles  and  miles  of  barbed  wires,  zigzagging  in  ap- 
parently irresolute  lines  across  what  once  were  fields 
and  groves  of  trees;  trees  the  very  skeleton  of  their 
former  shape  and  foliaged  beauty,  whose  bare  ec- 
centric branches  stretched  in  seeming  human  agony 
against  the  soft  September  skies,  appear  to  call  on 
heaven  itself  to  witness  the  horror  of  their  nudity 
and  disfigurement;  and,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
across  the  now  recaptured  green  of  earth's  fecundity, 
twisting,  turning,  slanting  downward  into  the  very 
bowels  of  the  earth,  coiling  in  serpentining  twists, 
were  the  trenches.  Miles  and  miles  of  them  stretched 
across  plains,  fields,  ran  up  the  hills,  only  to  run 
down  again;  some  so  close  together  they  seem  to  be 
competing  in  a  race  for  space;  some  still  yawning 
deeply,  plunging  earthward,  now,  with  a  year  of 

379 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

mud  and  rain  filling  the  crevices,  to  give  an  objective 
reminder  of  the  beds  and  living  they  offered  to  mill- 
ions of  shivering  soldiers. 

The  long  lines  of  streaking  whites  that  traversed 
the  fields  were  the  trenches  already  filled  in,  the 
chalk  of  the  subsoil  having  been  so  mixed  with 
earth  as  to  stain  it  a  roughened,  snowy  purity. 

Near  and  beyond  Hamel  the  ground  was  so  laced 
with  these  whitened  lines  that  for  a  plow  to  pass 
between  would  have  been  as  difficult  as  for  the 
legendary  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  the  equally 
legendary  needle. 

Every  sign  of  war,  every  horror  that  could  mark 
a  recent  battlefield,  every  tortured  form  of  tree  or 
wrecked  house,  or  burnt  village — all  of  these  one 
sees  as  one  passes  along  the  road  that  leads  one  to 
Villers-Bretonneux,  to  Hamel,  to  Albert,  to  Ba- 
paume,  to  Peronne,  or  to  Arras. 

You  may  sup  on  horrors  and  take  your  fill  of 
the  terrorizing  proofs  of  what  man  can  endurex  and 
of  what  man,  returned  to  savagery,  can  inflict. 


II 

In  this  journey,  for  the  purpose  of  looking  upon 
the  battlefields  that  surround  Amiens,  two  experi- 
ences stand  out  with  peculiar,  impressive  significance. 

On  the  road  to  Villers-Bretonneux  there  suddenly 
appeared  a  group  of  American  soldiers.  Several 
camions  were  alined  close  to  the  left  of  the  road. 
At  the  open  end  of  these  camions  stood  several  of 

380 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  men.  Across  the  fields,  close  to  the  roadside, 
were  deep  excavations  where  soldiers  were  busily 
shoveling  the  earth  into  mounds,  to  free  these  oblong 
holes  in  the  ground. 

Strange-looking  packages,  cased  in  brown  sacking, 
were  carefully  lifted  from  these  tomblike  openings. 
With  equal  care  the  bundles  were  conveyed  to  the 
camions.  There  the  men  awaiting  these  gruesome- 
looking  objects  as  painstakingly  lifted  each  one  into 
the  camions'  interior,  laying  one  on  top  of  the  other 
in  neat  piles. 

There  were  few  words  interchanged  between  the 
men.  There  was  some  checked  laughter,  some 
whistling  arrested,  as  our  car  drew  near  and  came  to 
a  stop. 

With  the  genial  friendliness  so  delightfully  Amer- 
ican, several  of  the  men  came  forward. 

To  our  rapid  questioning,  one  tall  Texan  replied, 
with  unembarrassed  ease,  and  in  the  tone  of  "it's 
all  a  matter  of  business": 

"Why,  marm,  we're  just  taking  some  of  our  boys, 
who  dropped  hereabouts,  and  were  buried  in  this 
'ere  plot.  We're  to  take  'em  over  yonder,  to  the  big 
burying-ground. ' ' 

"There — you  can  see  it — that  white  spot  shining 
above  Villers-Bretonneux,"  interrupted  a  fair-faced 
boy.  He  pointed  to  an  indistinct  mass  of  hilly 
ground  above  what  once  was  the  busy  town  of 
Villers-Bretonneux. 

The  matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  these  devoted 
men  in  a  reburial  of  our  heroes  could  not  inoculate 

381 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

our  less  hardened  sensibilities  with  their  own  phlegm. 
We  had  not  covenanted  for  this  gruesome  spectacle 
in  our  adventure  into  battle-land. 

The  remembrance  of  those  unearthed,  long,  brown 
bundles  haunted  us,  rose  up  before  every  green  bit 
of  unharmed  field,  were  a  ghostly  company  that  pur- 
sued us  unrelentingly,  until  other  ghosts,  of  a  fate 
as  cruel,  confronted  us,  made  our  hearts  melt  in  pity, 
and  made  death  itself  seem  less  the  sad  end  of  a 
chapter  that  was  a  stricken,  mutilated  city. 

For  Villers-Bretonneux  was  in  ruins.  Its  houses 
lay  in  broken  bits  of  brick  and  plaster  on  every  side. 
Streets  must  be  guessed  at,  and  for  a  car  to  make  its 
way  through  the  piled-up  masses  of  debris  was  the 
feat  only  of  an  expert  driver. 

An  English  flag,  a  group  of  tents,  and  some  tall, 
shapely  men  in  khaki  lured  us  to  seek  a  sure  refuge. 
A  unit  of  the  Australian  Y.  M.  C.  A.  was  still  on 
duty.  Its  most  obvious  duty  appeared,  on  the  in- 
stant of  our  arrival,  to  give  us  an  English  welcome. 
None  of  the  returned  refugees  to  this  ruined  town 
could  have  been  more  grateful  than  were  we  for  the 
warmth  of  the  brightly  lit  stoves,  for  the  steaming- 
hot  coffee,  for  the  delicious  loaves  of  white  bread, 
and  for  the  English  cigarette  and  the  sound  of  the 
English  voices. 

Commenting  on  the  martyrdom  of  the  town, 
"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  people  about;  they're  all 
comin'  back;  they'll  soon  have  it  cleared  up;  they're 
as  glad  to  get  back  as  are  we  to  go  home,"  was  the 
cheerful  response.  Our  new  friend  was  seated  on 

382 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  edge  of  the  nearest  table,  his  long  legs  were 
dangling,  his  hat  was  at  the  true  Australian  angle, 
and  his  smile  was  as  broad  as  was  his  accent. 

An  hour  later,  with  a  half-dozen  of  these  vigorous 
young  giants  as  escort,  we  made  the  tour  of  what 
was  once  a  town.  We  did  better  than  merely  to 
mourn  and  grieve  and  marvel  over  the  completeness 
of  the  destruction  of  Villers-Bretonneux.  Boston, 
New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  Chicago  had  given  me 
that  which  opened  to  me  what  might  have  been 
every  door,  but  was  commonly  merely  a  yawning 
hole  in  a  crumbling  wall,  which  made  every  face 
that  came  forth  to  gape  and  gaze  and  finally  to 
blaze  with  surprised  delight  that  of  a  grateful 
friend,  as  garments,  hoods,  boots,  and  clothing  for 
young  and  old  were  showered  to  the  outstretched 
hands. 

There  were  no  people  in  town?  Every  cellar, 
each  bit  of  still  standing  wall  or  roof  that  yielded 
semblance  of  a  possible  shelter,  rooms  that  had  been 
built  with  Idle  for  roofs,  and  windows  that  had 
oiled  paper  for  glass — from  cellars,  crumbling  in- 
teriors, and  cavernous  abodes — there  rose  up  a  small 
army  of  returned  refugees.  The  cries  of  joy,  the 
happy  laughter,  the  glad  shouts  of  the  children,  the 
continued  chorus  of  grateful  thanks  from  the  men 
and  women,  were  like  unto  a  chant,  one  that  seemed 
to  mock  the  ruins  and  to  defy  the  fates. 

Women  left  their  kettles,  the  latter  hung,  gipsy- 
fashion,  over  three  bits  of  iron,  beneath  which  burned 
feebly  an  uncertain  fire;  children  were  extricated 

383 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

from  perilous  adventures  amid  mounds  of  mortar 
and  cement;  babes  at  the  breast  found  the  maternal 
fount  temporarily  removed,  that  women,  children, 
and  nursing  infants  might  each  have  their  share  of 
"les  doux  Americains." 

To  see  them  re-enter  their  dilapidated  dwellings; 
to  look  upon  them  crawling  into  dark  cellars,  into 
holes  in  crumbling  walls,  with  faces  irradiate  with 
the  delight  born  of  the  possessorship  of  warm  cloth- 
ing and  some  bags  of  food,  was  to  learn  the  true 
meaning  of  the  words  "le  pays." 

Villers-Bretonneux  in  ruins  was  still  home.  Cold, 
hunger,  discomfort,  poverty,  and  surrounding  deso- 
lation could  be  endured  with  Spartan  courage,  since 
these  citizens  were  "chez  eux." 

There  is  no  killing  a  people  cuirassed  with  such 
virtues,  with  such  a  love  of  country,  of  their  own 
particular  bit  of  country.  This  is  the  "country"  the 
Frenchman  toils  to  inhabit,  fights  for,  and  returns 
to  work  for  and  rebuild. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 


HP  HE  imperative  reason  for  beginning  one's  tour 
•*•  of  the  battlefields  in  and  about  Amiens  is  found 
in  the  fact  that  the  battle  of  Amiens  was  the  turning 
of  the  tide  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Allied  armies  in 
1918 — a  victory  our  American  forces  helped  to  win. 

Who  can  forget  the  growing  horror  that  possessed 
the  civilized  world  as  the  Germans  began  their 
audacious  offensive  on  March  21,  1918?  Who  that 
lived  through  those  four  days  of  gathering  terror 
can  fail  to  measure  every  other  dread  as  puerile 
compared  to  the  marching  on  and  on  of  that  seem- 
ingly irresistible  force  of  the  German  army? 

The  battle  that  was  to  be  the  decisive  battle  of 
the  war  was  prepared  with  a  care  and  precision, 
its  initial  advance  was  executed  with  a  secrecy  and 
skill,  that  warranted  the  German  boast  that  this 
was  to  be  "The  Storm  of  Peace."  It  was  to  be,  in- 
deed, "The  Peace  Offensive." 

Two  hundred  and  eight  divisions  were  assembled 
under  cover  of  long  nights  of  silent,  soundless 
marches.  The  attack  was  opened  by  the  belching 

385 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

forth  along  a  front  of  sixty  miles  and  to  a  depth  of 
twelve  miles  of  a  vast  sea  of  gas  projected  by  toxic 
obus  (obus  toxique)  hours  before  dawn.  General 
Gough's  Fifth  English  Army  was  entirely  submerged 
by  that  poisonous  attack.  Telephone  liaisons  were 
cut,  the  smoke  of  the  mounting  waves  of  gas  made 
optical  telegraphy  impossible.  The  utmost  con- 
fusion and  panic  ensued.  Almost  immediately  fol- 
lowing the  deadening  gas  attack  the  German  in- 
fantry poured  over  the  top,  rushing  the  English  first 
line  and  destroying,  as  they  swept  onward,  thousands 
of  soldiers  with  their  Minenwerfer. 

In  the  incredibly  short  space  of  four  hours  from 
the  moment  of  attack,  so  great  had  been  the  surprise, 
that  Gough's  first  line  of  defenses  was  either  entirely 
destroyed  or  was  rendered  completely  useless. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  Germans  were  masters  of  their 
positions.  They  were  entering  the  open  country. 
They  had  pierced  the  English  front  and  the  rout  of 
General  Gough's  Fifth  Army  was  complete.  How 
could  fourteen  divisions  hold  against  the  thirty 
divisions  of  General  von  Hutier's  army  and  the  ten 
divisions  of  General  von  der  Marwitz? 

On  and  on  the  Germans  swept  in  their  triumphant 
march.  Champagne  and  Picardy  were  overrun  in 
four  short  days'  time.  This  time  the  triumphant 
German  cry,  "Nach  Paris!"  reverberated  to  inflate 
the  German  hopes  to  the  giddy  certainty  of  quick 
triumph. 

In  these  four  short  days  the  most  masterly  German 
military  feat  of  the  long  war  had  brought  their  forces 

386 


THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 

a  distance  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  kilo- 
meters, almost  to  their  objective — to  Amiens. 

The  Germans  were  once  more  in  the  "heart  of 
France."  And  the  heart  of  the  world  seemed  to 
stand  still,  to  lose  its  beat.  For  were  Amiens  to 
fall,  what  hope  was  there  for  Paris — for  Calais? 

The  design  of  the  audacious  enemy  offensive  had 
for  its  chief  purpose  the  cutting  of  the  lines  of  com- 
munication between  the  French  and  the  English 
lines. 

It  is  to  the  immortal  honor  of  General  Haig  that, 
seeing  this  appalling  peril,  conscious  of  its  imminent 
accomplishment,  he  should  have  acted  with  the 
despatch  and  energy  of  a  born  commander. 

Under  the  dome  of  the  great  hall  in  which 
L' Academic  Frangaise  holds  its  meetings,  not  many 
days  ago,  President  Poincare,  in  impassioned  elo- 
quence and  in  classic  phrase,  set  for  us  the  moving 
scene  that  resulted  from  General  Haig's  quick 
action.  The  President  of  the  French  Republic  was 
the  speaker  designated  to  respond  to  the  speech 
made  by  Marechal  Foch,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Marechal's  reception  as  a  member  of  the  Forty 
Immortals. 

The  all  but  fatal  situation  of  the  Allied  cause 
was  thus  graphically  set  forth: 

"Ham,  Peronne  have  fallen;  Noyon  is  on  the  eve 
of  being  taken;  the  enemy  is  marching  toward 
Montdidier  to  open  the  road  to  Amiens  and  to 
cut  the  communications  between  us  and  the  English. 
The  peril  is  so  great  that  the  French  General-in- 

387 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Chief,  doubtful  of  being  able  to  keep  in  touch  with 
the  Allies,  whose  retreat  continues,  gives  instructions 
to  his  lieutenants  which  foreshadow  a  fatal  separa- 
tion. General  Haig  writes  from  Abbeville  that  the 
eventual  break  between  the  English  and  French 
armies  is  only  a  question  of  time.  Thus  for  want  of 
a  supreme  command  and  of  a  controlling  will  the 
French  army  will  doubtless  be  forced  to  diverge 
toward  the  south  and  the  English  army  to  retreat 
toward  its  base  on  the  Channel.  In  a  very  brief 
space  of  time  the  catastrophe  will  have  happened. 

"General  Haig  saw  the  danger  and  telegraphed 
to  the  head  of  the  British  headquarters  to  beg  of  him 
to  come  to  France  with  a  member  of  the  English 
Cabinet,  and  to  ask  for  the  naming  of  a  supreme 
command.  Lord  Milner  and  General  Wilson  ar- 
rived on  the  25th  [March]" — five  days  after  the 
Germans  had  started  their  offensive. 

On  the  same  day  the  President  went  on  to  say 
that  he  and  Monsieur  Clemenceau,  with  Lord  Milner 
and  General  Wilson,  went  on  to  Compiegne  to  meet 
General  Petain,  "and  we  all  agreed  on  a  rendezvous 
for  the  morrow  at  Soullens,  where  we  should  meet 
General  Haig." 

Of  that  eventful  and  historic  meeting  at  Soullens, 
President  Poincare  presented  a  moving  and  brill- 
iantly realistic  picture. 

"Beyond  Amiens  the  roads  were  filled  with  Eng- 
lish troops  already  marching  north  against  the  bitter 
March  wind  that  stings  their  faces.  When  we  leave 
our  carriage  General  Haig  is  still  conferring  with  his 

388 


THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 

army  commanders.  In  order  not  to  interrupt  him, 
we  walk  up  and  down  the  little  square  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  for  more  than  an  hour.  .  .  .  We  mount  at 
last  up  to  the  great  Hall  of  the  Mairie,  and  there  a 
conference  is  held  which  throws  light  on  the  perfect 
concord  existing  between  the  two  governments,  and 
also  the  patriotic  disinterestedness  of  General  Haig 
and  General  Petain." 

The  result  of  the  meeting  was  the  unanimous  con- 
sent of  the  governments  to  hand  over  to  General 
Foch  the  co-ordinating  of  the  action  of  the  Allied 
armies  on  the  western  front.  In  early  April  the 
general  received  the  supreme  command. 

Such  was  the  gift  the  Germans  gave  to  the  Allied 
cause!  Territory,  loot,  plunder,  guns,  prisoners  by 
the  thousands — the  Germans  had  won  all  of  these 
in  their  triumphant  march  in  four  short  days  across 
125  kilometers  of  open  country. 

It  was  reserved  for  that  dynamic  force  we  know 
as  Marechal  Foch,  for  that  power  crowned  with  the 
triple  crown  of  intellectual,  spiritual,  and  military 
genius,  to  forge  a  stupendous  victory  out  of  what 
seemed  to  presage  the  crushing  defeat  of  Allied 
hopes. 

ii 

In  the  months  that  followed,  Amiens  must  wait 
until  the  early  days  of  August  to  be  freed  from  the 
dread  of  enemy  capture. 

With  the  fall  of  Montdidier,  the  railway  connecting 
Paris  and  Amiens  had  been  cut — a  serious  blow  to 

26  389 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

both  English  and  French  maneuvers,  and  to  their 
communicating  lines  of  resources  and  munitions. 

In  early  April,  however,  Foch's  masterly  leader- 
ship begins  to  prove  its  genius.  With  Haig,  Pe"tain, 
and  Fayolle,  a  superb  counter-offensive  saves  the 
French  coast.  The  many  attacks  on  Rheims  and 
Villers-Cotterets  fail.  The  French  front  holds.  And, 
later,  in  July,  "it  seems,"  says  President  Poincare, 
"at  last,  as  you  expressed  it,  that  we  had  arrived  at 
one  of  the  solemn  moments  where  an  army  on  the 
field  of  battle  feels  itself  pushed  onward,  as  though 
it  slid  along  an  inclined  plane.  .  .  .  From  the  summit 
which  we  have  gained  we  now  perceive  the  enemy 
which  begins  to  yield  and  the  victory  that  calls  us." 


in 

One  of  these  "solemn  moments"  in  the  ascending 
tide  of  the  Allied  fortunes  had  been  the  surprise  the 
American  troops  gave  the  world — as  well  as  the 
amazed  and  incredulous  Germans. 

The  American  valor  was  to  be  triumphantly  proved 
in  the  battles  about  Amiens.  For  the  moment  had 
come  for  Foch's  great  counter-offensive. 

The  general  knew  now  he  had  the  American  legions 
behind  him.  He  had  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
trained  American  reserves  to  draw  on.  That  noble 
gesture  of  General  Pershing's  when,  at  the  darkest 
moment  of  the  Allied  fortunes,  he  had  rushed  to 
General  Foch's  headquarters  to  present  him  with 
"all  I  have"  in  men  and  munitions,  had  been 

390 


THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 

seconded  by  one  of  the  most  astounding  military 
feats  of  organization  ever  performed  by  a  nation 
three  thousand  miles  away — the  sending  of  nearly 
three  hundred  thousand  troops  across  the  ocean. 

In  August,  therefore,  Foch  said,  "The  Entente 
must  now  strike  with  redoubled  force."  With  the 
Generals  Haig,  Rawlinson,  and  Debeney,  the  gen- 
eralissimo's first  plan  was  to  relieve  Amiens  and  to 
reconquer  Montdidier. 

It  is  at  Hamel,  and  later  at  Montdidier,  Americans 
should  begin  the  tour  of  inspection  of  this  northern 
battlefield.  For  here  Foch  wrested  the  offensive 
from  Ludendorff,  here  the  whole  German  plan  was 
upset,  and  in  these  victories  the  Germans  suffered 
those  first  crushing  defeats  that  led  to  the  armistice. 

At  both  Hamel  and  Montdidier  the  American 
troops  in  liaison  with  the  British  and  French  forces 
were  to  show  those  daring  fighting  qualities  that 
were  to  win  not  only  the  admiration  of  their  allies, 
but  were  to  prove  valor  that  was  further  to  pre- 
cipitate the  disintegrating  of  the  morale  of  the  en- 
emy and  of  the  German  civil  population. 

At  Hamel,  where  Australians  and  Americans  were 
brigaded  together,  the  forces  were  greatly  aided  in 
their  gallant  attack  by  the  tanks,  whose  efficiency 
had  lately  suffered  an  eclipse.  But  here,  in  this 
drive,  the  tanks  proved  to  be  astonishing  in  their 
facilities  and  methods  of  maneuvering,  arousing  the 
greatest  enthusiasm  and  intensifying  the  confidence 
of  the  attacking  troops, 

Over  the  top  and  away,  these  "men  from 

m 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

Antipodes"  carried  everything  before  them.  The 
objectives  were  reached,  positions  held,  prisoners 
taken  by  the  hundreds,  and  machine-guns  "smashed 
to  bits  under  heavy  weight  of  metal." 

Referring  to  these  and  to  the  later  attacks  along 
these  salients,  Philip  Gibbs  wrote: 

To  me  and  to  many  of  us  there  is  something  that  stirs  us 
deeply,  in  the  sight  of  Amiens  from  the  fields  all  around  that 
country  north  and  south  of  the  Somme,  where  the  Aus- 
tralian and  American  troops  are  fighting.  The  cathedral  is 
seen  with  its  high  roof  and  thin  spire  vague  as  a  shadow  in  the 
sky,  but  splendid  in  the  imagination  of  the  men  who  have 
walled  up  its  great  nave  and  seen  the  glory  of  its  sculpture. 

Every  few  yards  gained  of  the  ground  above  the  valley  of 
the  Somme  by  English  or  French  or  American  troops  insures 
the  greater  safety  of  that  old  city  our  men  have  learned  to  know 
and  admire  because  of  its  beauty  and  the  good  life  lived  there. 

The  lovely  city  the  Germans  coveted  was,  how- 
ever, shortly  to  be  freed  from  danger  of  German 
conquest  or  spoliation. 

On  Saturday,  August  10th,  Montdidier  fell  to  the 
French  First  Army.  In  this  tremendous  struggle  of 
the  Allied  troops  (British,  Americans,  Australians, 
and  French)  for  the  possession  of  this  important 
salient,  there  were  eight  thousand  prisoners  taken,  two 
hundred  guns,  and  an  enormous  amount  of  material. 

The  stirring  accounts  given  of  the  going  into 
action  of  the  Americans  records  one  of  the  thrilling 
episodes  of  our  army.  In  order  to  be  on  time  to  get 
over  the  top  at  the  appointed  time,  the  Americans 
made  a  forced  march;  during  the  last  kilometers 
they  ran.  A  smoke  screen  lifted  as  they  went  into 

392 


THE  BATTLE  OF  AMIENS 

action,  and  the  Americans  found  themselves  at  once 
at  grips  with  the  Germans. 

The  fighting  at  Montdidier  was  of  the  most  ex- 
haustive order.  The  town  is  on  a  hill;  the  Germans 
were  strongly  intrenched,  with  machine-guns  playing 
their  deadly  fire  on  the  troops  rushing  the  sides  of 
the  rising  ground. 

And  the  conquering  Allies,  in  possession  of  the 
wrecked  town  (for  there  is  no  longer  any  town  of 
Montdidier),  the  soldiers  must  fight  the  Germans  in 
the  cellars,  in  the  attics — or  such  as  were  still  standing. 

This  face-to-face  combat  was  a  struggle  of  giants. 
The  three  days'  battle  was  one  of  the  titanic  battles 
of  the  war. 

With  the  fall  of  Montdidier,  Amiens's  fate  was 
secure,  the  Paris-Amiens  railroad  recaptured,  Paris 
was  saved,  and  the  world  could  breathe  freely  again. 

At  Chateau-Thierry  and  the  Argonne  our  Amer- 
ican troops  were  to  continue  to  win  the  laurels  and 
to  hasten  the  dawn  of  victory. 

What  had  been  accomplished  by  the  Allied  armies 
in  less  than  a  month  was  as  follows: 

Enemy  forces  numbering  three  hundred  thousand 
men  had  been  defeated  and  driven  back  in  confusion; 
three  hundred  guns  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
prisoners  had  been  taken;  immense  booty  and  stores 
of  provisions  had  been  captured;  the  great  railway 
to  the  north  had  been  disengaged;  and  the  British, 
French,  and  American  forces  had  been  welded  into 
an  unbreakable  whole.  .  .  . 

Paris  had  been  under  the  bombing  attacks  of  the 

393 


UP  THE  SEINE  TO  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

long-range  German  gun  since  March  26th;  had  been 
in  its  turn  under  fire. 

American  aviators  had  discovered  its  position  be- 
tween Ham  and  Guiscard,  north  of  Noyon. 

In  these  great  battles  about  Amiens  and  Mont- 
didier,  "Foch  brought  the  war  back  to  the  days  of 
the  great  historic  battles,  where  ability  plays  an 
essential  part.  A  great  soldier  had  appeared  at  last, 
and  once  more  the  battlefields  of  Europe  are  swayed 
under  the  spell  of  genius." 

As  Xerxes  sat  on  his  golden  throne  to  watch  the 
disaster  of  Salamis,  so  the  German  Emperor  had 
sat,  placed  where  he  might  best  note  what  were  to 
have  been  the  triumphs  of  his  "Friedersturm." 

But  it  was  his  downfall  and  not  "world  power" 
to  which  mistaken  German  military  councils  were 
to  lead.  The  Imperial  Command  had  headed 
straight  for  military  defeat  and  the  suicide  of  the 
Hohenzollern  dynasty. 

The  great  day  broke  on  November  8th.  The  Ger- 
mans, sooner  than  meet  the  fate  of  being  strangled 
on  the  Meuse,  unable  to  reach  Germany,  "there  was 
no  other  issue  than  a  capitulation  in  open  country." 

And  thus  ended  the  greatest  war  in  history. 
Marechal  Foch  had  added  to  "all  the  glories  of 
France" — "d  toutes  les  gloires  de  la  France" — that 
of  having  saved  the  most  sacred  of  all — that  of 
civilization  and  the  liberty  of  the  world, 


ENP 


